Dreamscape
by apatheticking
Summary: A hunter awakes in the darkness, a doll awakens in a dream, a paleblood sky looms over the old city. My first attempt at narrative storytelling. Rated T for now.
1. Chapter 1

**My First Attempt at really writing for an audience. Of course I don't own Bloodborne or From Software's IP. Props to those who do though.**

The Hunter did not remember where he was or how he had stood from the table where he awoke. From the first step off the table, a clumsy attempt to walk resulted in an odd drunken stumble ending in a sharp pain as the needle was ripped from his forearm. The remainder of the "Yarnham blood" fell to the floor, coating the grime on the floor. The Hunter, not bothering to try to get off the floor, gazed at the pool near his person."I want it. I want it. so warm, welcoming, Why.." As he reached for the crimson pool, the wood of the floor started to become exceedingly apparent.

At first the world in it's entirety seemed dull, shrouded, and cold. Soon things began to spring forth from the blood. The grain of the dusty floor, and it's splinters in the Hunters face, the cold air hanging still in the room, the stench of rot and molding books on the ground, and the pain of glass pressing into his hands. He stood, and carefully walked to the doorway. As he moved, a warmth began to creep from the feet up. He suddenly felt his pulse in his ears, and heard the sound of his heels clicking against the floor. He felt the wall and the smooth wooden shelves, ignoring the pain in his head and the words echoing in his mind. "Hunter" "Blood" "Power" "Kill beasts" "Hunt". He fell again, and stumbled down the corridor into a sterile room. He looks to his right, then his left, then ahead where a beastly form loomed over a pile of viscera. It looks back, and the hunter is silenced, his body broken and his blood sprayed on the walls. There is the sight of small skeletal creatures, little malformed skulls and faces, hands grasping at his remains. The corpse is moving. No, the Hunter still hears and feels, his mind is being pulled into an ether.

There is the smell of fire, and cold dew is soaking into his clothes. He stands for a moment, unaware of the pair of eyes fixed on him. He walks, twitching and flexing, making sure that all his muscles and bones are where they should be. The cobblestones are soft underfoot, and the flowers seem to glow. The Hunter thinks "I am dreaming". There is a doll sitting against a wall of a small shop, it's porcelain face is blank, mesmerizing. He stares, small wrists. No.. Ball joints look so fragile they might fall off under their own weight. The dress is clean, as if the terrain never even acknowledged the doll existed. Though her eyes worried him. They were as if they were plucked from a human, and they conveyed emotion. Thoroughly unnerved, the Hunter proceeded to walk up the stairs over the malformed abominations. He glances down at the steps he fell over. A pistol and cane sat at the base where he fell. The pistol loaded, and the cane collapsing into a chain of razor blades before condensing into a fine blade. With a sigh and a shake of the cape, he intones with the voice in his head. "I am a hunter, I will hunt".

/

She is incapable of movement, though she still perceives. The smell of old paper and morning dew is drifting in the air, she sees the stone pathway in her vision, the flowers and grass by the tombstones. Her hands feel the soft fabric, and a downwards pressure tells the recently awoken woman that she is sitting, in complete paralysis. She remembers the last time she was sentient. She was standing among dozens of men, branding steel and fire and quicksilver. They spoke of her master, now old and full of sleep in his chair. "The church has barred their doors to the people, they have forsaken our city" says one. "It is overrun with the plague, even the beasts hunt each other without knowing what they attack", "my uncle shot his wife and infant in his rage, he set his home on fire". They are afraid, and even in the safety of the dream, they know the hunt is over, and they too must become one with the nightmare. They take their leave, one or two leaving together in macabre company. They never return, and as the days pass, her strength dwindles with the number left alive in the city. The hunt.

It then dawns on her that she has awoken for the first time in years, decades even, and then, the second realization.

"I am not alone". Gehrman. A new hunter. Serve. A heat rises in her chest, a smile is held dormant within the cold paralysis. This hunter standing by the workshop has yet to be granted insight. This one is different. The garb is all wrong, more a highwayman than a hunter. panic seizes the doll. Her alabaster skin is heating up with the knowledge that this hunter will be slaughtered wearing this scant uniform. She sees the axes fall into his skin, the bullets tear flesh from the body, the horror as beasts and plagued men rend and flay him from dream to dream. He returns each time with a hollow expression, a confused air as he awakens from agony among cool morning dew and warm fire from the hearth. Tears well in the eyes of the doll, she wishes that for a fleeting moment the Hunter would awaken from the nightmare upon her lap, where she could console his weary mind.

Gehrman wheels past her, "you will move soon, then you may be of use". She rehearses her verse to the newcomer, her first in an eternity. "Hello good hunter, I am a doll".

 **So I never tried to write a narrative, and I never considered letting people see what I did write. Yay or nay to continuing the story? Other chapters will be (considerably) longer. Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm still astounded by the fact that people liked what I wrote. Thank you to those who review and criticize, my work will (hopefully) improve accordingly. A special shout out to Got mercy for the criticism, it completely emboldened my work.**

II

The Hunter walked the lonesome road up to the cathedral ward, taking great care to be discreet. In times where the blood of man and beast becomes indistinguishable, the hunters experience unknown euphoria. The warmth of blood and fire and gunpowder permeates the senses, and even the old hunter Gascoigne was rumored to have succumb to the bloodlust. The hunter heard this rumor from a crow, perched on an overlook near the sewers. Quite the pleasant woman, "It's comforting to know there are things that won't kill me here" intones the Hunter as he runs the golden marks through his fingers. They were cold to the touch, odd considering the soft glow they emanated in one's palm. She spoke with the wisdom and severity of one older than himself, but for a woman both small and older, she radiated an aura of fear. The wicked blades hanging beneath her breast made the hunters breast tighten, the blades were not made for beasts. The rapture of the hunt never reached this one. Truly, Eileen the crow did not participate in the warmth of beast blood. She spilled cold and still human blood. The hunter realised the source of his fear. "She is not a hunter, she is a murderer. Stopping the ravenous and the enraged hunters from becoming dangerous beasts".

The hunter loaded his pistol and ran the blade of his cane over his shoulder cape to cleanse the steel of fetid beast's blood. He crossed the bridge, passing spattered stagecoaches and hastily chained boxes to an iron gate, no mechanism in sight. He heard the beast before he saw it. Akin to the wolf like beasts he flayed to get to the bridge, this one stood with its head at least three meters above the ground, antlers protruding from bloody sores in it's skull. The great arms it had were asymmetrical, one being hulking and covered in fur, the other being smooth with curved wicked claws. Seeing the great form above him made the hunters knees buckle.

"I see now the extent of the plague. The scourge that the church hoped to burn away stands before me". The Hunter looked upon the brute with no fear, a sense of realisation eclipsed him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a bone crushing swipe from the great creatures furred arm. The beast threw the Hunter across the bridge, the only thing stopping the airborne man was a pile of crates, which fragmented under the pressure. With blood literally running his vision red, the hunter stood to face his opponent. His body screamed for respite, wood fragments and stones lodged in his body only negated by the wave of rage and pure aggression that pushed the man forward. Not even noticing the ringing in his ears caused by an inhuman screech, an arm not feeling like his own fired a pistol. The bullet met its mark in the creature's face, where stunned, the beast fell forward. Acting on anger and lust for more blood, the Hunter threw his cane as a javelin, and charged after it. The beast was recovering when the cane struck its neck, not soon after the beast felt the blade free itself. A flurry of razors and bloody spray covered the ground beneath the creature as it's legs were shredded to loose strands of tissue. Keen to bathe in the strength of his adversary, he collapses his cane and strikes at the clawed arm. Even as the larger arm swipes him off his feet and into the air, the Hunter fires off another pistol cartridge, this time missing the beast's eye, and instead causes a gasp of air to leave a newly made hole in it's throat. A now bloody and suffocating monster stumbles to the ground, where the Hunter runs forward in a blinding series of slashes, the last embedding the blade in the skull of his adversary.

The fight is won, but walking to the lantern the thought crosses his mind "I became Gascoigne". Fear and despair wash over the sobered man as the messengers take him home.

/

She whispers softly to herself the word "paralysis", with it, her lips move. The Doll shifts her legs to stand. She stumbles for a moment, her hands catching the wall she was perched on a moment ago. A small victory in not sullying her dress aside, the woman stood erect, and dusted her garments. "How long have I been asleep?" she wanders through the eternal dream, for a moment waltzing up and down the path bordering the workshop. "Foolish doll" Gehrman croaks in a series of wheezing coughs, "our new hunter approaches, and you dance about in your own grime like a young woman? Get yourself clean for our newest failure, we haven't entertained anyone in almost two decades". She stood for a moment with a sense of emptiness. It had not been days, or weeks, even years. It had been _decades_ since the last hunter entered the dream, decades since the insight of those stalwart professionals graced her with any insight or power. The Doll suddenly became acutely aware of how weak she was, no eldritch wisdom had bound her consciousness in over twenty years, nary a single morsel of insight to hold together her being.

The Doll remembered her position, channeling the echoes of fallen blood into new strength for the dreamers. She would hold their hands, rough and calloused, and watch before her eyes as men and beast blood was shed and savored by man. She would grimace as the men she was designed to love would exact harsh judgement on creatures that felt, that still had traces of humanity. She would feel the poison of hatred, rage, and suffering flow like the blood through her and into the hunters, emboldening their spirits and strengthening their bodies. After decades of devout service to the workshop hunters, the Doll was numb to such violence. Still she pitied the poor creatures that were torn to bits by her masters. They were once people.

The Doll, stung by the harsh words of her only consistent company in the dream, and the length of her absence, walked over to the large basin near her post. A single messenger rose from the misty water and handed her a damp handkerchief. With appropriate thanks, the Doll washed the grime from her dusty joints and prayed hushed prayers for her new hunter. Thinking all the time of her new Hunter.

He arrived not a second after the Doll placed the cloth back in the basin. She walked briskly to her guest, speaking "Hello, good hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you. Honorable hunter, pursue the echoes of blood, and I will channel them into your strength. You will hunt beasts. And I will be here for you, to embolden your sickly spirit.". The warmth and fondness of finally speaking to another being flooded her senses. The man stared for a moment, and then another. He was taken aback, then nothing. He walked past young woman with the utterance "thank you friend". His eyes were not as they were when he returned in past times. When she glanced from her unmoving position she saw the aching young man walk about with inquisitive eyes. He would speak with Gehrman, clean his weapons, write in a small journal, even tinker with gears on the threshold of the workshop. Now he walked with deadened eyes, a part of her cracked in focus, her strength was faltering with her dear Hunter. When he returned, he was seemingly more focused. They talked briefly of Gehrman and the messengers when he asked in a hushed tone "will you grant me more power?". In all her years of service, never had anyone asked to be emboldened, always barking orders at her, shouting and demanding immediate strength to fight. The Doll felt a tinge of heat at the courtesy rise in her chest, and a small smile creep upon her. "My good Hunter, it would be my duty to embolden you. Please, place your hand in my own and sit". he sat at her feet looking her in the eyes, her green eyes glanced away from his grey ones as she felt warm hands take hers. "Now close your eyes".

The sight of a great and lithe figure filled her vision, this creature sent a storm of razors and lead upon infected people. It flayed the bodies and pulled a long blade from corpses, it stood as death stood, all in its way was cut to shreds, painting the figure in blood. Such macabre sport this man participated in as he walked the streets cutting and shooting and burning his adversaries, though there was always a hesitance, as if the hunt was not pleasing the Hunter. _Strange._ It was in these moments where axes would fall, guns would fire, and beasts would tear this man apart. These moments always blurred into a new series of murder, until she saw the beast she heard of so long ago, the one of the infected church. It was a church hunter years ago who spoke of high clergymen becoming great and terrible beasts, rampaging through the streets. They all spoke fondly of their bloody sport. She saw the Hunter's joy as he battled the mammoth, his sweat noble with effort as he charged what seemed to be a castle to him. She feared the feeling of infection spreading in his bloodlust. Was this the feeling that killed off the last hunters she had seen? She felt the anguish in his thoughts, and the emboldening was finished.

Hands untangled, the Hunter spoke softly "thank you, I feel my strength return tenfold" his breath touching her warmed hands, though there was no happiness, only hollow weariness. The Doll thought of the weight of what she saw, how his duty crushed his spirit. Such was the inevitability of the hunt. It tears and gnaws at the humanity of the professionals who participate, until either they are killed, or the bloodlust turns them into the beasts they once hunted. As the bold man walked away, she called out "My Hunter?". He turned to face her, his eyes showing curiosity. "The hunt was once a popular event, dozens of hunters would grace me with the fruits of their duty, share with me the strength they gained. I saw most of them only once before they were bested in spirit and strength. You have come back to me ten times. You are different, do not enjoy the battle, come back to me". He stopped for a moment and slowly walked over to her, removed his cap and scarf, and bowed low. Taking her hand in his, he spoke "The hunt has not broken me yet". Then he disappeared. Back into the dream. Back into the danger.

"Come back to me"

 **Never tried to write a fight scene before, how did I do? I know I suck, but please keep helping me with your input. Special thanks to those who followed/favourited/reviewed my story, you guys really help. I'll try to be quick with the next chapter, should it please you.**


	3. Chapter 3

**It never ceases to astound me that people are following my work, I thank you greatly for your continued support. I really am stupefied by the patrons who rate, follow, and even favourite (who'd think it?) my work. It can only get better from here though (fingers crossed). Time for a third installment of the Dreamscape.**

Drei

The Hunter came on and off to the workshop, either by force or at his discretion. he would sit in the workshop (the floor or the chairs) and fine tune his trade. Often the Doll would walk into the shop and see the Hunter peering over the workbench, sweat dripping from his brow, hands fiddling with the spring of a contraption, or he would be sitting on the floor with some old text pressed to his face, a pair of spectacles serving as a buffer between him and the old paper. He would come home (as the Doll thought it, the workshop was home. A shelter in which he could come and sit and let the weariness of the hunt ease from his muscles. He did not suffer here.) and ironically, work. Where the hunter's dream workshop was made to be a sanctuary, this man would work harder than he seemed to in the hunt itself. He would sit in the workshop for hours beyond measure (for there was no day and night here, only the moon) tinkering and reading and oddly enough, training. When the Doll first gazed upon the newcomer, he was smaller than some of the hunters she recalled, and his hands were soft and pure of injury. Now when he would hold her hand and channel newfound strength, his bare hands were rough and coated in scars.

Time after time he would come back, weary, beaten, confident, but always ready to work. The man was commendably inquisitive. It showed. Soon he was reading on other factions of Yarnham, becoming naturally stronger, toiling with weapons. The Doll walked in to see if the Hunter was still in the workshop. he sat at his desk, tomes open on the desk as he held a fine red stone in his palm. With a firm hold, he moved a number of implements into the stone, and began to press the stone into his cane, where the stone began to powderize and sink into the blade. There was a warm glow on the metal, then the blade seemed to darken ever so slightly. "Good Hunter, you are bettering your weapons?" she inquired, standing in the doorway. She had seen the hunters leave with weapons improved, but never witnessed the process firsthand. When hunters were commonplace here, she was only permitted around the workshop, never in. Now rules were as few as occupants. "I read that with these stones of coagulated blood, a hunter such as myself can make his tools stronger, more capable to cut, and withstand wear" a small sheen of sweat was visible at the back of his hairline, "the volumes failed to mention how labour intensive it is, the springs and gears of the weapons are easier to work with". The Doll timidly stepped through the threshold and sat in a chair by the rune altar, glancing at the tomes stacked by the Hunter's chair. Powder Kegs and Their Tools. Weaponising Wisdom in the Healing Church. The Biology of Plagued Subjects. One leather bound book was untitled and smeared with pencil markings, a journal perhaps.

"What do you write about?" She asks. For a moment, she is taken aback by her actions. She is to take orders, answer questions, serve. Never ask, never falter, never stray from the domain of her duty. "Many apologie-" "It is quite alright, you have the right to inquire of my business. You are so much a part of my work as are my other tools. Er, not as a tool of course, my apologies. I keep written the rumors and whereabouts of derelict hunters and hordes of beasts in the city, as to keep my duty efficient. I keep all that I need bound in the pages". She nods in understanding as he returns to his work. She glances at his person, unaccustomed to the courtesy that she is being treated with. Not in her memory had she recalled such civility, not in her lifetime had she experienced any civil times. He was slightly broader than when he had first appeared, strange because he was by no means small. Easily standing at almost two meters in height and thin, for such definition to appear was expected of those who combated the beasts. Though with muscle came scarring. His hands were heavily scarred, and there was a deep wound leading down from his collarbone. Where the messengers typically cleanse the hunter of injury upon death, some scars are overlooked. Almost suddenly, he stands and arches his back in an almost feline manner, his gaze moving around the workshop expressionless. When his eyes fall past her, he slowly walks towards the door with his newly improved weapon at hand. A quick pause, "I appreciate the workshop you know? I see horrors every time I leave here, it is good to know I have a haven and a friend". He briskly walks off, disappearing in the mists of the dream.

"Friend" she says aloud. "Fool" a rasp responds from the doorway. Gehrman slowly moves into the room, he is so feeble and old in his chair. "He is a fool, but we are all fools in this terrible hunter's nightmare. You should not grow attached to any hunter, we of the trade break. We dream and dream and dream, coming back to you to allow us to dream a little longer before we stop dreaming, then we are taken by the dreamless nightmare. You have the fortune of dying when he does, I stay here until someone else comes, I fear he will be the last." She feels his bitterness, his aged soul tired of the dream, tired of being the master of the house. He was the first, and he will be the last. She is the groundskeeper, he is the owner. The Doll remembers when he was young, toiling at the workshop, with her sitting at his side, never moving. Now he is the immobile sentinel.

Gehrman sits in the backyard of his dreamscape. He has seen the moon here millions of times, sat for years in this chair, on this grass, staring at that moon. Rather than homesickness, he is sick of his home. "Laurence, please". A choked sob. "I am of little use now….come…." tears fall freely from his eyes as he sits alone in a nightmare of his own making. The first time in decades, Gehrman feels alone.

/

He sits up on a belfry, watching shapes move about in the city. Rats and men alike prowl the streets, but he is looking for a monster. The past few expeditions the Hunter was on, parts of the city were completely cleared of life, the corpses mutilated beyond necessity. The wounds were inflicted with a weapon though, there was something more than a hunter tearing through the streets. "Hello stranger" speaks the crow, sitting by his side on the balcony. "This is Gascoigne's work no doubt, you see his rage in the corpses in the gutters. He is losing his mind" she drawls in her accent. "No doubt Henryk follows the trail he leaves. Gascoigne is no longer in my domain, but his partner is mine". The Hunter had been following the trails of blood left by the berserker, always ending abruptly in dead ends and sewer openings. The man was a ghost. Though now, from Eileen's nest, he could see all of the city, and where most of the sewers intersected. "They will be in Oedon Chapel, his daughters worry for him, his wife, missing. We must silence this before he completely loses his mind", The trek through the sewer will be easy enough. Tight corridors and limited access will make dispatching resistance easy enough. "I'll leave ya to your work Hunter" she calls out from the opposite side of the roof. "Be safe" He replies. She glances, chuckles, and leaps from her spot.

Countless times he studied the city plans of Yharnam, more than once he practiced his swordsmanship with his cane, and his accuracy with his whip. He toiled with the contraption, and even fortified his gear, making the blade finer and sturdier. He trained to gain more strength and endurance, the old fashioned way to boost the echo-emboldening provided by the Doll. "My friend through blood and damnation" he mutters. He silently considers what she does when he is not there, perhaps sleep, perhaps she cleans, maybe she speaks with the old man, bitter and tired as he is. He exist the alleyway in the sewer, wading now through the filth of the main gutter channel. He treads softly, as to not alert anyone of his presence. Quick glances reveal the long sought evidence. Scratches in the masonry, and what was an eviscerated corpse here and there. The hunter even finds knives embedded in some bodies in the periphery of the main path. Gascoigne was being followed. When the Hunter reaches the sewer line under the tomb, he stares down the channel to behold a hulking quadruped in the distance, he throws a pebble, and there is no response, only silence. It was as if a great storm tore through the tunnel, bodies piled in the filth. Hardly bodies even, pieces of bodies piled up. The end of the tunnel was blocked by the body of what once might have been the largest swine to ever walk the city. Its throat was cut, and deep gashes coated its torso, its blood still leaking into the brackish water below. He is here, this is recent. The Hunter steps aside the pig, climbs a ladder to the tomb, where he sees the silhouette of a gargantuan man with an axe in the distance. It is time.

/

A bird of prey stalks the streets, among the diseased carrion crows of the city Eileen walks unnoticed. She looks down at her notebook, leaning on a lamp post, her blade at her hip. Tonight she must find the partner of Gascoigne, old yellow Henryk. The man has been rampaging around the sewers of the city, cutting man and beast down indiscriminately. Last night she had found a young girl slumped at a well, a bucket of water in her cold hands, and a pair of fine knives in her sockets. The sewers a street away revealed signs of a struggle, blood from many beasts, bent knives, torn tendons and severed appendages littered the flotsam in the sewer, giving the usual fetid stench a tinge of iron. Eileen hated these sewers, usually she skipped hunting here unless she had to. The beasts would simply wallow in the filth until disease eclipsed the plague and made hunter's work short. Not her problem. Having to inspect the carnage though, Eileen climbed down into the dirty water, cringing at the sensation of her heels digging into the grime. She looked at the scene analytically. Two large beasts, lacerations to the sternum and throat, killed with a saw cleaver. Three infected townsfolk, knives stuck inches from the center of the skull, bodies leaning on the wall. The third party had a rifle. Remains yet to be seen. Hands and legs floating among the others, this one was different. There was gunpowder on the wall behind the torso, the torso itself was split from what remained of the right bicep to the sternum. This one was killed more viciously. Verdict? This one shot him, and he retaliated. Eileen stared at the gunpowder on the wall, then the rifle. She fingered the barrel of the gun. Warm. This was recent. He's here. Eileen dove towards the ladder as a serrated blade lodged in her shoulder.

 **So another chapter added to the tally. Next chapter will feature the battle with Gascoigne and maybe a bit extra. Thank you in advance for any reviews, or just reading this far in general. Here is a fun little game. I had some literary references littered through the chapters. Leave a review if you think you found them.**


	4. Chapter 4

**The continued support I get on this story is almost unprecedented. Really it is incredible to hear people not only follow and review, but even favourite my writing. It almost feels wrong to base my interpretations and plots in the IP of other people.**

Quatre

Gehrman thinks from his post of the days before the endless dream. The days where he and Laurence would debate and hunt and laugh as comrades. He even remembers his love for his Doll. Not his Doll, his wife's Doll. He loves the Doll because his wife loved the Doll. She would sit by the fire combing "my young lady's hair" and mumbling prayers for the safety of Gehrman and the hunters. She did this twice a day. In the morning when Gehrman would work in the shop, and when he returned from a hunt in the dawn. The times were good. She would do this for thirty years, before she was taken by the plague.

When his dear Aemelia was taken, Gehrman personally brought her before the church, asking the good vicar if she could ease her suffering. Ludwig, the great church hunter, denied her salvation, and left Gehrman to end his own wife. The Doll in the workshop stayed as a mockery of his former love. He would comb her hair twice a day, counting to a hundred with the ivory comb, and sweeping the grey hair from her eyes. Laurence understood, and would sit outside the workshop, toying with his cleaver, watching his teacher venerate his anchor to humanity. With the Church, the Powder Kegs, the enigmatic Vilebloods, and the Workshop acting to cleanse the beasts, the nights were calm, and the dreams were short and sweet. Gehrman remembers the scores of hunters that would visit, seeking training, donating texts, bringing thanks, and sometimes condolences. Halcylon. Sad, but absolutely splendid. He would leave with Laurence, patrol the streets, cut down a beast or two, then return.

It was not to last though. Promptly five years after Aemelia's death, Yharnam collapsed into chaos. The church began reporting great and powerful beasts coming from Byrgenwerth, the sewers became breeding grounds for diseased creatures to spread the plague, the old forest was deemed a death zone, and the lower wards of the city became infested with hordes of infected. The Church blamed the Vileblood's dark rituals, the Vilebloods blamed the Church's prospecting in the tombs, and the citizens became few, and guarded. The hunters became few. They would leave into the city, and return scarred, battered, mad, or not return at all. Gehrman, now aged and feeble, coordinated alone in his workshop, where Laurence had forsaken him in the pursuit of Byrgenwerth secrets. Hunters became an endangered breed, and they stopped coming to the workshop. The Healing Church sent their holy executioners to purge the Cainhurst Vilebloods. The Powder Kegs disbanded with the destruction of their workshop, and Gehrman was alone.

It was in this loneliness Gehrman began hearing the voices. Great whispers from the walls of the old walls of his home, telling him secrets in languages that had never been heard by mortal men. He awoke one morning to find the moon hanging impossibly close in the sky, and his beloved Doll, walking in the garden, the garden that went on into an endless mist. The Hunters disappeared one by one. Starting in the dream, numbering exactly forty-seven. Year after year, vanishing. Every so often the young crow would return their defiled weapons, or broken bodies. Even she would disappear. Ten years after Aemelia, there were no more hunters, the doll slept, and Gehrman was truly alone. That was twenty years ago. Gehrman now sits with the company of the bitter reminder of his golden years, the voices, and a young man with no hope of a peaceful death.

/

Gascoigne stood impossibly tall. He loomed over the Hunter, who was by no means small. The first observation made was the stench of his breath, which became close impossibly fast. Raising his cane to block an oncoming axe, the second observation was made. He was stronger than any man. The axe bore down on the steel blade with enough force to knock the hunter over a tombstone underfoot, the blade went further and lodged into the stone face. The Hunter rolled back to distance himself from this devil, loaded his pistol, thinking "If I can't overwhelm his strength, I'll simply have to be faster". The old man, breathing heavily, drew his axe from the tombstone, bringing a large chunk of the grave with him. There is a loud groan, and in a wide arc, Gascoigne waves an arc with his weapon, flinging the fragment of stone at his opponent. The Hunter sidesteps the flying stone, and is met with a blast from the blunderbuss, just far enough to not inflict any real damage, but enough to break his focus. He raises his blade to block, and the axe misses its target. Taking the opportunity, the Hunter folds in his arm, and draws an arc perpendicular to the axe, slicing the opposite arm holding the gun. Gascoigne doesn't even flinch as his muscle is severed, and he thrusts his knee forward like a battering ram, hitting the Hunter in the chest. The air is forced from his lungs, and the Hunter is thrown back by the force.

The axe falls at an alarming speed towards the young man on the ground, the cane only catching the blow at the hilt, and restraining the force enough for the Hunter to raise his pistol and fire point blank into Gascoigne's pelvis. The old man screams in agony as he feels the bullet graze his bones, and then screams again as the young man before him drives his blade through his already crippled shoulder. Falling backwards, Gascoigne feels the warmth of his own festering blood run down his chest, he can taste it. He can smell it. He can _see_ it. The blood of beasts fills his vision as he rises to his feet. "Beasts all over the shop" he laughs as he brings his axe to its full length. The Hunter jumps to his right as the halberd like blade crashes through a row of gravestones uninterrupted. He then dodges and weaves side to side, up and down, parry and strike and stab in an attempt to counter the blinding flurry of crescent slashes from his inhuman adversary. The man is _giggling_ as he fights, bleeding profusely upon the floor. Gascoigne turns his torso to wind up a powerful strike with his axe. "My turn" thinks the Hunter as he runs forward, slashing at the arms of Gascoigne. He cuts the arm closest to him, then stabs the shoulderblade, quickly and furiously cuts arcs up and down Gascoigne's torso and legs. He ducks and with a quick twist, cuts deeply into the ribcage of the man.

This does not stop Gascoigne, who laughingly swings his axe in a wide circle. Though the blade misses, the shaft of the axe catches the bastard in the chest and sends him flying through the air. He lands in a heap by the stairs. He begins to walk towards the twitching mass of coat and cloth, but his legs have no strength, and his arms can not grasp weapons firmly. He laughs "my blood is more on the outside then in" and he begins to feel a chill climb up his back, and his bandages fall, and his mind goes blank as his bones splinter and grow.

The Hunter looks about. There was a monstrous screech, but no monster. Did Gascoigne flee? Am I safe? Have I won? All is quickly answered as he begins to look to the top of the stairs. A greying flash of torn cloth and fur collides with him as he feels claws and teeth embed into his respective arms and neck. The Hunter is then disemboweled, decapitated, and eviscerated. He wonders what the Doll is doing.

/

The Doll is reading. More precisely, the Doll is reading newsbooks dating through the past three decades. She had never known the outside world, and has never been permitted to even enter the building. "Good Hunter?" She asks. "Would you be displeased should I desire to read in the workshop?". "Absurd". She begins to feel the same disappointment she feels when Gehrman is with her. "What is stopping you from entering? Do what pleases you". She feels the same warmth climb from her feet up as he walks into the mist. The warmth tinges her cheeks, and her face is mysteriously heated for the coming hours. She read all about the first hunter's crusade against the abominations, the research in Byrgenwerth, the mysterious knights of Cainhurst kidnapping hunters, all up to the church closing its doors to the people and the outbreak of the great plague in old Yharnam. She had not seen her Hunter in days, but he was alive, she would not be if he wasn't. As long as he was, she was too. "Romantic" is what Gehrman called the sentiment while she checked on him in the garden. The concept of romance eluded the Doll. It was curious the feelings that mortals felt, the love they could share and express. She did not understand. When the Hunters fight the beasts, or when the people are being killed, who feels an attraction to anything other than their calling.

She is to care for the workshop and it's residents, that is her purpose. To love and care for her home. Yet, she yearns for that heat that comes when she speaks with this man. She counts the seconds when he is in the dream working. It is her own little dream, he delight in the company of one who seems to take interest in her. Not to say it hasn't happened before. The hunters in the past paid attention so long as she held their hands and strengthened them, but that was their business. Their authority to exercise her use. She thinks back to a dialogue she had with the Hunter.

"So you never have seen the outside world?". She raises her head and moves it side to side. "To be honest, this is the best part of the world for me. The city, even clear of beasts was too busy and cramped. There was a stench in the streets, and there were too many people to really even speak to. I much prefer the morning dew, the flowers, and the company here". She asks "I know little of the peace before the hunt, and little of the hunt in progress, I only see the blood and the hunters. Is there really no goodness in the waking world?". He explains that in times of such despair, "It is the smallest of things that keep us sane. The smell of fire, or the smoothness of stone, even the ringing of a clock tower. It tells us that we are alive, and that eventually the night ends". She does not understand. "Perhaps when I return I will bring something to demonstrate".

She has finished the newspapers, and goes to the garden to make sure Gehrman is still there. He is still asleep, his head in his hands, and his breathing shallow. Though next to him is the Hunter, sitting on the ground, in the same position, seemingly asleep. The Doll places her hand on his shoulder, and he looks up. Spectacles. Spectacles and a scar above his eyebrow. "You should come and lay by the fire, the ground is cold, and the workshop is warm". He stands, places a hand on her shoulder, and walks with her to the threshold. "He is so warm". The good Hunter walks with a limp as he makes his way to the small cot in the corner of the workshop. "Would you care to chat?". She is taken for a moment by a wave of vertigo, and sits by him in a wooden chair. They speak of his travels, and his battle. He is visibly tired and within minutes of their conversation, he nods off. She smiles, and sits with him for a moment. His chest rises and falls slightly as he breathes, and his outerwear is hung by the fire to dry. The Doll considers his scar, then his glasses. She does not want him to crush his spectacles, and so she tenderly reaches to take them from his face.

She touches the bridge of the frame, and his hand lightly grasps hers. She withholds a gasp, as he is still resting. His hand is warm against hers, and she is aware of a heat enveloping her face as his lips graze her hand slightly, dragging her hand (and his eyewear) down his face. He releases his grasp, and she quickly places the article on the nearest shelf, and takes her leave to the garden. He awakens many hours later, and sits by her in the garden. "I had brought you something to demonstrate my point. From our last real discourse. A young girl had given this to me" he speaks as he removes a small wooden box from behind his back. He opens it, and a small series of bell chimes fill the air. Cheerful and fragile. The Doll stared fixedly at the clockwork mechanisms in the box. The copper gears turn on a dial, a tumbler swings, and a arm seems to gyrate as iron and steel and aluminum seem to blend into cogs, turning small panels of metal over bumps, creating the ringing. For a moment she is unaware that she has leaned into the Hunter's shoulder, and her hand has enclosed his in an attempt to feel the wood of the box. The realisation hits her and she pulls back sharply, "how indecorous of me my good Hunter. Please forgive such a violation so that I may-". "Oh my dear friend, it is nothing but curiosity. I. er. Think nothing of this incident, though now I must take my leave". He quickly stands, glancing at an inscription on the box. Eyes widening, muscles tightening, legs moving quickly. "I must go". He is wearing his coat, his blade is sharp, and his eyes narrowed. "I will be home soon".

His face was reddening as hers does on her own. The Doll sits at her post, thinking of the softness in her features. She wonders the meaning of yes. She thinks about the romance yes. She gets up, and walks to the newspapers, begins reading a serialisation of a romance story, muttering all the time "yes". She learns now of femininity, and of her sensation. Frightening as it is. The Doll puts such in the back of her mind, and she waits.

 **So Concludes another chapter of Dreamscape. Not as long as I had hoped, though I make this up as I go along. I'm going to uni soon for the first time, and I am remarkably nervous. I hope it will not put any hold on the story. I had another literary reference in this chapter, if you know where it is from, post it in a review. As always, I am so flattered that people read my work, and like it even. Thank you for your continued attention, it means a lot to an aspiring writer. Till next chapter.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I planned on waiting to publish another chapter until I was all settled in at the university, but writing is therapeutic in a sense. I couldn't stay away I guess. Keep an eye out for the literary references, I almost want to make a game of it. Waffling aside, here you go.**

V

The music box was his. Gascoigne, not a cleric, a father in the literal sense. His stint of service for the church only solidified such a title. Now he was a monster, a warped facade of his former glory clad in tatters of bloody cloth and beastly fur. Where once there was a man of principle and duty, protecting his children, he was now the subject that others needed protecting from. He snarled and flung his broad arms in a frenzy of claws and teeth, grazing flesh and crumbling stone, searching for more delightful blood to satiate his need. The Hunter before him was no different.

The Hunter however, now had the gravity of the battle in his mind. This was no mad man, this was not just a corrupted beast without mind or soul. This was a man. A sick man whose daughter was in his acquaintance. The sentiment was not lost on the hunter, who considered for a moment in between parried claws and gunpowder clouds, the philosophy of his action. He was a protector, a doctor even. Just as the church physicians searched for a cure, he too, reduced the plague by silencing those beyond saving. He halted the spread of death by silencing the suffering souls who once were. Somber. Sobering even. The Hunter feels a wave of calm resignation wash over him. This is not a fight he can lose, this is a sacred duty for which he will never be thanked. He must put Gascoigne to rest.

He parries the first claw via a clean drag of his cane across Gascoigne's bicep, and sweeps an arc across his chest. Although shallow, there is a cut, but the Father does not slow. The man leaps into the sky with a roar, his claws marking a path of descent. The Hunter rolls forward, out of the path of the man who now crashes into a row of tombstones, tumbling over the fragments of stone he created. The Hunter rushes the recovering form, but miscalculates the speed of recovery as a great forearm slams into his ribs, lifting him from his feet and flinging now airborne body into the trunk of a tree. Knowing the ruthlessness of his adversary, beast or no, the Hunter fires off a round from his hip directly forward. Not expecting connection, he is surprised to find that the bullet grazed Gascoigne's cheek, and stunned him. He takes the initiative to release his blade into component parts, and flog the man in his stupor. The razors catch in his skin and tangle in his fur, and a harsh tug causes Gascoigne to howl in pain as entire sections of viscera are torn from his flesh, littering the floor.

The Hunter wants this to be swift, for Gascoigne's suffering to be brief. To Him, Gascoigne was an honored acquaintance, the father of one of the few things in the nightmare that didn't actively try and kill him. He switches back to a sword, and begins slashing and stabbing in precise arcs and pinpoints, aiming to finish off his adversary. The adversary is not making it easy though. For every drop of blood spilt, Gascoigne seems to be getting faster and more frenzied, his rage and bloodlust only growing. He now charges forward with his massive shoulders, attempting to knock any standing object off its base. He misses, and instead almost uproots a tree. The Hunter hesitates for a moment as he feels splinters from the impact embedded in his arms, but quickly regains his stance as he sees Gascoigne double forward for another strike. The first claw is avoided by leaning to the side, the second requires a lunge to the left. The third strike arcs a sharp claw directly into the Hunter's shoulder. The pain is intense for a moment, the burning sensation of muscle being rent from bone as the blood drains freely from the open gash. Then. Numbness. Partially because of the blood loss, then because of the next sensation, The second and final strike pinning the Hunter to the floor. Gascoigne bit him in the shoulder opposite the other.

He was stuck, impaled on a claw, and held down by the gnawing teeth of his adversary. One hand reached frantically for some means of escape, when suddenly a small metallic sound rang aloud in the tomb of Formless Oedeon. A segment from a small wooden box long forgotten by a young girl's father. Gascoigne stopped, and his free hand grasped for his head, his teeth freed the mangled extremity. Beastly clouded eyes glanced up at the wooden box, but his hand was lodged in something warm. He tasted iron, different warmth and flavours, but all iron. There was a rancid stench of blood in the air, and it was long past time for him to return home to his wife and children. "Where am I?" but there was no answer. Too many sensations and memories were flying around, some were not of him. There was a vision of his wife, bloodied and dying, her breast torn open by steel implements. He whispered questioningly "Where are my children?".

The Hunter thought not of the momentary peace. Instead he reached for a bottle secured at his waist. He grasped it tightly, and fired a single bullet through the cloth that bound the lip. The bullet hit Gascoigne in the arm with enough force to free the Hunter's shoulder, the bottle was hurled in an upward arc, smashing now burning glass fragments and oil into the face of his adversary. Then with cane in hand, the Hunter thrust his blade into the torso of Gascoigne. The Hunter stood without triumph or ceremony, clinging to his shoulder before walking to the twitching body of the defeated party. The beast looked up, and there was calmness, humanity. He raised the pistol to the man's temple, nodded with respect, and pulled the trigger. The Hunter nursed his wounds with excess blood vials, and waited to regain strength.

/

The Doll sat alone in the foyer of the workshop. In the reading of her serialisations, she began to understand more and more. Even in the absence of the literature she had been reading, it seemed as though she would awake with more knowledge than before. In the last moment alone she had been out in the garden, Gehrman sleeping, flowers in bloom as always, when a realisation hit. There was no world outside the gates of the Hunter's Workshop, how did she find a full water can every time she awoke? Even further, the flowers had been in bloom for about three months, and in the prior decades, years. Things in the reading did not adhere to the laws of the Dream. The fiction presented was a conundrum. Time was relative here, and regardless of reality, this place, existed separately. Concepts of _Unheimlichkeit_ (as she read it) were evident in her reality. Her reality. Was it different than the waking world? Because her world was temporary, and fleeting with the power of the activity of the hunt, was it _real?_

Was she real? She loved the Hunters, desired to serve them and ease their pain through blood emboldening. She reveled in the times where Hunters would return to the dream strong and unscathed, was it genuine? Or was she a result of her creators? Without the presence of the Hunter as a distraction, who could ease her mind? Such a weight bore down on her skull, as greyish bangs swept over her eyes. A great sadness flooded her mind. She was a Doll, a thing. Not a being.

/

She chased the Yellow Hunter down alleyways and through clock towers. A tireless pursuit for the aging woman and the mad old man. She fires a round down a hallway, but misses. He throws two knives down the corridor, and they embed into a large rat lurking in the shadows. It is as if he is merely trying to slaughter all that he can before he is hunted down. Eileen is sick of this prey. He is no single battle, but a war of attrition. Days upon days of chasing the pest through dank sewers and infested alleyways only to lose him eventually in a brief duel with the taciturn old bastard, where he would harm her enough to slow her, then continue his mindless slaughter. She would always come close to finishing him before he managed another small feat that would ruin her effort. This would be different. Earlier she had fired a poisoned blood bullet into his side, and it was showing its wear.

Henryk dashed through the streets nonetheless, seeming to effortlessly hack and slash his way through to his destination. He would return to the tomb to rest and resume his duty. Now he would turn briefly to clash with Eileen, slashing away with his cleaver in an attempt to slow her down, she would dodge and take quick stabs with her akimbo blades. He would be in trouble, and then he would flee. The distance to the tomb was closing quickly. Eileen recalled telling her little friend to stay clear of the tomb until her prey was dead and gone. This one was hers. They reached a long sewer corridor, Henryk broke into a frustrated sprint, dashing full speed down the darkened corridor. She pauses a moment when she hears the scream of a pig, and feels the walls shake with the steps of the beast, then continues when she watches her prey simply slide under the charging abomination, disemboweling it lengthways with a single knife. She charges after him, to the tomb.

She walked to the largest of the tombstones, glancing all around. He had to be here, the entire area was drenched in viscera, and the corpse of some large beast was torn to bits by the stairs, and the upper stairwell was certain death for anyone being ambushed. She waited for a moment. Her mistake, considering the serrated blade that embedded in her back, inches from her spine. A sharp intake of breath made her realise that her lung had been punctured. Now she stood to face him. She separated her blades, and took a stance before him. He drew a knife, and extended his saw to its cleaver. Where he would swing an arc, she would lean to dodge and close the distance with a few quick stabs. She lunged in the gap, slashing wildly at his arms, managing to take a finger from his weapon, and completely slash his left tricep. Move in for the kill.

Her body did not comply. There was a second knife embedded in her side, piercing her upper breast into her midsection. He swung his cleaver horizontally. Her only option was to try and block it, and rather, the cleaver turned, and the broad sheet of metal pressed the knife further into her chest. She gasped at the searing pain of many hooked points tore into her skin. This was it. She would die here, and be taken by the nightmare forever. Such sweet freedom, she was getting old anyways. Maybe that sweet young man would pay her a visit, she inwardly chuckles at the thought. Henryk is not amused, rather occupied with the blade protruding from his chest. There is a tall bespectacled man standing behind her. "You really should be nicer to ladies you know". She really almost regretted not dying, being saved in her profession was highly dishonorable. She was the last hunter of hunters though, there was no one to judge her. She wastes no time in injecting new blood to speed her healing. She pulls the knives from her chest, and mutters "that wasn't necessary of ya". He laughs, "but you have my thanks". They chat in short tired spurts, coughing up blood and wrapping wounds. It was oddly intimate for Eileen. She had not experienced talking in years, no less with a man. He said that he would need to go back about his business, and offered his hand as parting. She took it, and he lifted her from the stairs. She savored the warmth of another human, not trying to kill her, and she looked at a face not smeared in gore, at eyes not filled with murderous rage. She wondered what ever happened to that one old hunter who retired. She sighs, savors the closeness of the contact, then walks off into the city to watch the moon once more. She thinks for a moment, even in a dream, her hair still continues to grey. She is forty three.

 **Oh how the time goes. I still have some lit references you guys should look for. I still crave your lovely lovely words of demeaning criticism (please be kind to my fragile ego). I look forward to what you guys have to say, and maybe I'll see about getting another chapter out before I move out to uni.**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Pre-Uni episode didn't happen, and I'm sorry. Though hopefully by the time I upload this I can compensate for my absence. I have been trying to catch up with my other story, so I'll use this as an excuse. That said, Let me see what I can do.**

Six

The Hunter managed to push the worn out iron gate open just enough for him to squeeze himself through, and then mustered the rest of his wavering energy to close and lock the gate. Every step caused steady blood loss after his two consecutive fights with Gascoigne and his partner. Even the healing blood worked at a slow pace due to the severity of the wounds. Eileen being a former doctor had given a fair assessment.

"Your right arm would be gone without the healing blood, three of your ribs are fractured. I'm fairly sure that your knee is dislocated, and it appears that there are bits of wood lodged in your sternum. Lucky to be alive" she chuckled as she popped his knee into place. She may have been a cold murderer, but she made for an excellent field surgeon. She had a sewing kit on hand, and was quick to bandage, seal, and excavate any wounds that required attention. He had slept on a bench after the fact, unwilling to return to the dream before he saw the condition of the chapel. Before he slept, he liberally fed syringes of blood into his chest and arm. Making sure that his sleep would be a healing one.

The chapel, or cathedral depending on the yahrnamite in question, was empty in the archives. The Hunter affirmed this when he was greeted by the stench of musty paper and the silence that comes from a space left uninhabited. He searched around for any notable literature he could bring back to the workshop. Maybe there was something the Doll would like to read? He stopped and considered this thought. Did she enjoy reading? Rather, what should he bring her? The Hunter chuckled to himself, here he was, out in a nightmare slaughtering beasts and his fellow man, and he was wondering what he would bring his missus back from shop. _Missus?_ I mean she was more of a housekeeper, but that sounded impersonal. Companion would work, if she actually went with him anywhere. He shrugs and climbs the stairs.

He climbs the stairs to the absolute most pungent odour he had yet experienced. It wasn't particularly bad, but powerful. He heard church bells as he ascended to the foyer of the church, and the scent of an entire burning florist assaulted him. The Hunter reached for his collar to pull up his handkerchief when a meek elderly voice said "You'll get used to it eventually, it keeps the beasts out. Sorry bout' the stench though". The Hunter was taken aback by the creature's appearance. It was a mummified woman wrapped in a red cloth, her hands were tipped in claws, which was only her skeletally thin hands. She altogether frightened him, and put him at ease. There was nothing untrustworthy of her. "Tea's on, I haven't had a visitor in quite some time". He sits, curiosity piqued as she seemingly slithers across the floor to a kettle. The smell of incense was fading to the periphery of his sensations, and the new smell of tea becoming pervasive in the room.

"Here you go dear" the creature smiles, handing a small china cup to the Hunter. He removes his gauntlets and sips from the cup. This is bizarre. Nothing is trying to kill him, he is in the nightmare and a totally sane creature is serving him afternoon tea in a church free of any plague. The Hunter glanced around him to see if there was any trap or murderous beast hiding in the shadows. "The incense keeps the beasts out, might I ask your name?"

He doesn't hear the question. His wounds still cause him great discomfort, and there are still wounds held closed visible on his arms. "My goodness! we must get you healed up immediately!" The creature cries out as she shuffles down to a small chest. Her hands fumble for a minute before giving the seated man a generous number of blood vials. "One is from the clinic back in town, there are very few still in circulation". She smiles through seemingly aged teeth. Not outside his dream has the Hunter experienced generosity.

"Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry for intruding, or even taking any of your supplies. In such times it is so very refreshing to see something out and about not after my life. I must ask though, may I take some of the scripts from the archives down below? You see, I need to return to my home an-"

"Darling you've made my year just be stumbling in, if you find anyone else in need of safe refuge, please tell them about this place. It's been so long since I've had company. Off with you now! Hunters have their duty" The Hunter pulls his face covering down and offers a smile and bow before activating the lantern in the room and phasing under the grasp of the messengers. "Do stay safe my friend".

He felt mildly guilty about already taking the books from the library, but he was not aware the church was inhabited at all. However, he was a little guarded about this new stranger. (S)he didn't seem human, but she was friendly. Perhaps the inhabitants of the dream were not all limited to mindless violence? Either way, he should take the precaution to learn if she was trustworthy or not before sending anyone into potential trouble. In great need of a distraction from this, he looked into a small sack he had tied at his waist. Usually he had blood vials neatly arranged in the sack, though with none on hand, he used it as a bookcase. In it was _The Regional Flavours of Yarnham, first edition, The Iconography of the Healing Church and Appropriated Weapons, The Complete Revised Study of Cainhurst Blood Ministration,_ and finally _The Moon's Lover_ a popular serialisation put together in a tome. Perhaps the Doll would like this? He heard it was quite popular when he last spoke with Gilbert back in the main city. Written by an old scholar simply penned "M". Regardless of popularity, it was a topic of conversation.

Arriving back in the garden of the Workshop was always a bit of a stomach churning experience. While he seemingly walked forward out of the tombstone at the base of the Workshop, there was a feeling of gravity slowly returning, which signaled his presence in the Hunter's Dream. He always wanted tea after returning. The Doll always obliged. He always accepted. With the thought of hot tea for his uneasy constitution in mind, he crossed the threshold of the Workshop, (taking care to wipe his boots upon the bottom step) and looked about for the Doll. He wanted to give her the book, and then perhaps toil with his weapons while the water boils. There upon the upholstered chest was a rumpled heap of cloth strongly resembling the Doll's dress. Without a word he walked over to the ruffled dress and put the book down at her feet on top of some old newspapers she must have been reading. He had left a single note labelled "Doll".

-I'm out in the garden, the book is for you, tea will be on in about half an hour

That done he stoked the hearth for a moment and threw some new fuel on, placed the kettle over the flame, and slowly walked out of the workshop without so much as a creak in the floor. He inhaled deeply the scent of the ever-blooming lumenflowers, and sat by a hedge in the back garden with a manual on fencing and swordplay. He read over the techniques meticulously, before noticing a soft breathing coming from the corner of the garden wall, by the fence. He stood up, brushed the dew off his coat and breathed aloud the word "Elders". Not to the surprise of the Hunter (if the Hunter could be surprised anymore) was a slumbering Gehrman. The old man was sitting in his chair with his head hung in such an angle that caused soft snoring, though he would frequently move his head or grimace, suggesting a nightmare. The Hunter placed a hand on the man's shoulder and gently shook the appendage whispering "On for tea?".

The Hunter could indeed be surprised. Not a moment after the first syllable, there was a small knife to his chin, and Gehrman looked up, alert, but then at ease. "You really shouldn't sneak up on your elders, it's impolite" he said softly and simply, tucking the knife back into his coat sleeve. "What did you ask my boy?". The Hunter regained his composure, the moment he felt the knife his pistol was raised to the back of the chair. "I wanted to ask if you wanted tea or perhaps something to eat?". The old man was taken aback, not only was there tea suddenly here, but food as well? He nodded, expecting himself dreaming, and was soon surprised to be holding a small cup of hot tea and a biscuit. "Why thank you" he muttered, tucking into the beverage. The Hunter chuckled, "I had brought it back from a house in the city, the residents were long gone. "Dead likely". "We can only hope otherwise". Gerhman chucked aloud, this one still hasn't had the optimism chewed out of him. He gratefully drank the tea though, and they discussed his hunt. Gehrman even had a technique to teach the young man. "You're tall, and strong no doubt, but hunting is about striking fast. The beasts will always be stronger and bigger, rely on speed. With your long arms, I would bet that you could extend that cane of yours and still wield it as one would a smaller blade. That way the flogger would extend longer as well". Such an idea never really crossed the Hunter's mind. Sure he could harden the blade, and sharpen it as well, maybe even make the transitory action smoother, but change the weapon specifications? He would have to look at the spare parts. The Hunter asked if he had any other remarks that would help. "Hundreds my boy, but for now we shouldn't talk business, drink up before it gets cold".

An evening went that way, and soon Gehrman was softly snoring once more under the giant moon. The Hunter took the kitchenwares and placed them back into the Workshop. The Doll had not moved. Now he was concerned. He walked over to her slowly, afraid for a moment of the weapons she may be concealing under the dress. Before hearing her mutter something about "Hunter….lost…..old item….waking..my….Hunter". He reached out and touched her knee. She gasped and out of reflex reached to grab his arm. He looked down to see that the pure porcelain of which her arm was constituted was old and cracked, the paint chipping and dust floating. Only for a moment before he looked back down and all was normal. "Good Hunter, you surprised me". The Hunter wanted to seem casual about what he had seen so he laughed "It appears that I did". The Doll smiled, though she seemed troubled.

"I brought you a book from a church on the outside, I remember you would read those serials in the old papers". He reached for the book, but she had already done so and he had reached out and grabbed her hand. He almost jumped back at the indecorum of it all. She paused for a moment, eyes fixed on him analytically. She almost seemed to flush slightly. "Thank you, you needed not do anything for me" she said simply, badly hiding her obviously flustered visage. He sighed for a moment knowing he had not committed a faux pas, and excused himself from the room to walk on the lawn.

It was there that the Hunter fell asleep under a tree, he badly needed the rest. He had a restful, dreamless sleep, but awoke covered in the morning dew. It always seemed to be dawn here, and a little darkness in his sleep would be appreciated. He walked into the workshop to see what he could do about his cane, and found the Doll sitting in a chair by the altar a good hundred pages through. "What is the novel about friend?" he asked whilst sitting down at his workspace, picking out different segments of blade for his modification. "It is a story of a man who covets the love of the moon, and tries to contact it through the Moon's cousin the Cosm. Hardly the Hunter's idea of a great tale, but it is quaint". The Hunter considered the story, though not his usual reading material, but it was not training specifications or weapon plans, so it was a welcome change in pace.

They exchanged words back and forth for a few hours, he fixed new blades onto his whip, and she fixed new sentences to memory. Eventually he finished and spoke aloud "I forgot, I have an excess of strength that needs channeling. Would you be so obliged?". The Doll pulled up her sleeve and reached for him. His warm, bare hand was placed in her tiny palm, and she savored the small sensation of his rough hands on hers before the memories were channeled. She saw great tragedy as he went toe to toe with another man. He was by far greater, but not as broad, and his arms swung about a lethal looking halberd. The Hunter was skilled though, and managed to work harder. Eventually the familiarity of the figure dawned on her, he was one who visited the workshop in the old days. She remembered a man of the church with a beautiful young woman walking to speak with Gehrman when his hair had just started to grey. She remembered a yellow garbed man, silently walking behind them as they left. The man smiled back at the workshop.

Gascoigne was laying in a hair covered heap on the ground, bloodied and battered, with the Hunter limping away from him. She saw every cut and every frenzied thought in Gascoigne's head. She heard his confusion and rage and fear all scattered within a deep inky void of bloodlust and mindlessness. She understood. Then she saw a woman dressed as a great raven slashing fruitlessly against the yellow-garbed hunter. He was slower, but much more resourceful as he would swing his blade about and slash with smaller knives. She watched as her Hunter crept up behind the assailant and thrust his blade through his back. She heard the familiar voice of the old Yarnhamite doctor who used to be a consultant for the Workshop and the Church. A mere killer now? Perhaps times have truly changed since she was young.

The sudden flow of nostalgia almost had the meek and mild mannered Doll in tears as she saw old friends of her creator put down. When her hand was vacant once more, her shoulder was held softly by the Hunter. "It had to be done, they rest easy now in the waking world". The Doll looked up, and asked for a moment. The Hunter sat down on the steps, while the Doll walked out to the Garden to wake Gehrman. "Master, I need to tell you that Gascoigne and his Partner are gone". Gehrman looked up for a moment and muttered soft prayers of freedom, and then spoke fondly of the two men. The Doll felt heat flood her chest, and pressure build behind her eyes, but she held such pressure in. Not now. She was the Doll, the keeper of the dream and a _thing_. Humanity was not her function. Yet she read and took tea with the Hunter and sat with him as a friend. It was too confusing a situation for her, so she simply went back to the workshop and read.

The Hunter was waiting by the doorway. His time in the workshop was short, and he needed to return to work. His blade was longer, and it looked as though it's base had saw teeth. Truly the Hunter had been busy. How long had she been reading? He looked at her, before taking off his spectacles and telling her "I won't be leaving anytime soon, so don't worry yourself". He walked off into the mist, and the Doll thought "My Hunter".

 **I'm so sorry that this took so long to put out. University has been really interesting to acclimate to, so I'm just a tad overwhelmed. I did start up some old hobbies though, so that has been helping my process. I finished the chapter around fifteen past midnight today, and honestly I kind of like my lore-building chapters. No lit references that I consciously made this time. But as always, I love your criticism and well wishes. The community is half the reason I do this. Check out my other story if you have a chance. Until then.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Well I've been putting this off. Not really. University has brought back some bad habits, and really has been a massive shift in the tone of my life. Though it is more or less easy, I seem to have less and less time to actually do things as fulfilling as writing stories or maintaining myself as a person. Oh well, let's see what I can do.**

 **Seven**

The Cathedral Ward outside the great temple of the formless Oedon was silent. The Hunter would often wander the grounds in silence searching for beasts to hunt, but there were none. Such an area was truly terrifying to him, there was always the looming feeling that he was being watched by something, not like the messengers that littered the floor, but something malicious. He was being watched by something dangerous. Every corner of the ward seemed to have an air of danger that refused to be confrontational. That was until he managed to walk the main roads. The brave, though cunning hunter took a page from Eileen, in he never was out in the open, for the open was an invitation to be gunned down, mauled, eviscerated, and slaughtered by anything hidden in the shadows. Better to be the one laying the traps than the idiot caught in them.

He decided that if he was to find and get to old Yharnam as he was told, he would have to eventually cross a main road. He searched the shadows meticulously. Sweeping the alleyways and gutters, cutting down an occasional infected crow or hound, before the chillingly nice realisation that there were no considerable beasts hiding in the shadows. That in mind he went back to the cathedral for evening tea.

It was a foreign concept that the Hunter began to really enjoy, being on the job but not actively hunted by any murderous infected. He would tuck into his tea and talk with the Chapel Keeper.

"The incense we burn keeps the beasts out" it would say proudly, toying with a candle and a stick of incense. "Though does it extend into the streets?" he asked, for want of the knowledge that there actually was a safe place in the city. "I wouldn't know myself, I stay in the church and keep the incense lit". Strange. The Hunter stood up, thanking the being, and then walking out into the ward. He took a note to himself reminding him to tell the young girl, and the bitter old woman that the chapel was safe. He would clear the way, and then tell them to hurry. Later though. Now he would go and scout the main roads.

The stones that paved the Cathedral ward were covered with a thin sheen of dust and grime, but of the blood there was none. The streets themselves were quiet, and nothing save the footsteps of the Hunter himself were heard. The balconies and the rooftops that loomed over the main roads were clear of anything constituting a threat. He had read that the church deployed inhuman ghouls to fight off the hordes of plague ridden Yharnamites that would overpower the church novice hunters. Though all he saw were statue-like creatures sitting and standing about the main roads, brandishing lanterns and walking sticks, occasionally with a gun or a large blade. They stood still at first in the main areas around the church, occasionally doing rounds to make sure nothing had showed up. The Hunter jumped down from a balcony to get a closer look.

They stood about eight feet in height, with no skin shown due to the church garb, their sturdy wooden sticks more strongly suggested they were to be used as clubs. The thing that worried him though were their faces. They seemed to have white alabaster masks, portraying no emotion with pitch black holes where eyes would be, mouths agape as if just about to start a sentence. The vast forms would move without any specific haste, rather with a bulky waddle off into a distance. The Hunter followed one down into the lower wards where a group of three of the brutes were occupied beating down a mass of confused infected Yharnamites with their clubs, the largest of the three firing off some form of pistol.

He rolled down the stairs and quickly ran the blade of his cane through the neck of the fourth church abomination before searching for supplies on the corpse. The other three paid no heed as the Hunter took to the shadows. So this is why there are no Yharnamites in the streets, he thought as he watched one of the brutes swipe his staff across two skulls, the resulting mess splattering in the courtyard.

He began to ascend back to the church, making sure to scavenge the main road for any useful materials. He scanned the crates and the stores boarded up, finding nothing but old church propaganda and scorched wooden structures. He thought this strange until a swath of flame arced over the Hunter's head. One of the hulking beasts stood with a strange cannister, spewing fire in planes attempting to incinerate the Hunter. It stood there with its mouth emitting a dry rasping roar as it swung its club down, catching the Hunter in the foot with a sickening pop. The Hunter tumbled into a heap, his foot hanging off the joint like a side thought. The creature began hobbling after the Hunter with its club raised high. The wooden head connected with the pavement, a millisecond after the Hunter pivoted on his good foot to leap to the left, into the wall, where he propped himself up into a swordsman's stance. The hulking brute lunged forward with its club, and it was instead impaled on the cane, this did not stop the flamesprayer from setting the Hunter's leg ablaze.

He grunted as his bad leg was worsened, and released the cane into its whip variation before leaping past the church beast. The cane at first caught its segments in the flesh of the monster, before the segmented bits tore entire sections of viscera from the now gaping wound of its mark. The creature staggered forward, and then collapsed in it's own mess of blood and loosened flesh. The Hunter quickly slid his leg through a damp puddle in the road, and injected two blood vials from his belt into the affected extremity. He savored the warming numbness as he attempted to pop his foot back into place. With his tattered hunter's garb hanging loosely from his leg and a limp quickly developing, he rethreaded his cane and began to stand again. He thought to himself that he would need to be careful in this area, the beasts were not as frail as the sick Yharnamites, and they were leagues more powerful. He heard the footsteps of more of the servants, perhaps to investigate the noise, he rolled into the shadows and began to try a new trick he read about.

The three church guardians ascended the stairs leading to the corpse. The Hunter began to brace himself for the assault. _One_. The first beast pointed in his direction and led the initial hobbling charge towards him, seeming to push straight past the first meter and the corpse. _Two._ Bottles seemed to fall from the higher tenements of the buildings, coating the floor and the charging beasts in foul smelling slime. It was poisonous, but not effective, the Hunter winced as his trigger finger itched. _Three._ The trio began to converge on the Hunter, who pulled his trigger. There was a combustion, but no bullet. A dud. _Four._ a thin stream of flame worked from the hammer of the Hunter's pistol to a thread caught around the arms of the beasts. All three of the creatures dropped to their knees as their robes burst into flames, the very floor about them burning a toxic mixture of poison, oil, and concentrated whiskey. Such a flame would burn for several minutes before going out. The Hunter limped away from the pungent mess of fire and burning remains before he would have to wash the stench from his clothes.

He returned not more than ten minutes after the Doll had finished afternoon tea, the boiling water set to simmer, and Gehrman seated before the hearth, a blanket covering his lap. The Hunter walked in, placing his coat on the hanger, loosed his suspenders, and sat down quietly upon a chair a few feet from the hearth. He had returned maybe thirty minutes prior, but he had waved to the doll, and gone to bathe in a large washtub he kept in the garden, next to a birdbath. He took the kettle, and poured himself and Gehrman a cup of tea, gently grasping the old man's shoulder to rouse him from his sleep. Gerhman woke with a start, his hand grasping for something under the sheet, but he quickly relaxed when he saw where he was. "The wire trick worked as you said it would" the Hunter said aloud. Gehrman laughed for a moment, before turning to him. "An old powder keg trick they used in the old city, they used to to contain large groups, or occasionally a beast too large to combat in open areas. Good to know the classics haven't lost use." He drank his tea, and pointed out another tome in the corner of the workbench, telling of it's old tricks that may still be useful. The Doll went to retrieve it, but her hand intersected the path of the Hunter's. They shared a glance, her's was mildly worried and a bit ashamed of the contact. His was horrified. She took her hand back for a moment, grasping the skin of her arm.

 _Skin._

She walked quickly off into the garden where she pulled up her sleeve to examine in abject horror, the heat rising dramatically in her face, chest, and eyes. Porcelain. She was relieved to find clean white porcelain under her dress. She turned around, and walked back to the workshop. Though not before running directly into the Hunter, who was standing behind her. Nose bouncing harmlessly off his torso as his arm caught her from falling. He looked quickly into her eyes, sensing the calm, and then, walked back into the shop. She swore she heard Gehrman mutter something about _damn children_. With all back to normal, she sat in the parlor with another newspaper, reading that about fifty years ago, the beast plague ravaged all of Loran, leaving a destroyed civilisation in ruin. She read reports of human population dropping as church hunters left in hundreds, and returning in tens in good years. The Hunter came and went, sometimes coming back after a few hours, sometimes not returning for weeks. All the time he would return with some new bandage covering some injury. More or often he would return flustered by defeat. In such a case he would read a bit, then practice rigorously in the garden for hours. Then he would return to the inside of the workshop, read, work, train, repeat.

She would read. Read and read and read about everything. Loran, blood ministration, the study of the mind, and that which she found most interesting, fiction. The Doll had developed a fond routine of sitting outside whilst the Hunter trained, and reading the fiction he would bring her from the city. She simply was fascinated by all the sensations the writers were able to fit into characters. She would wonder if Gehrman ever simply wrote her into existence, and simply fit a personality into her. The idea frightened her. Perhaps there was a story scribbled on a sheet of paper somewhere in the shop that gave her life. If she could simply fade away if Gehrman ever suffered a stroke, would she fade out of existence? He was to her as a god was. Before she existed, there was Gehrman. She found it all unsettling, but fascinating.

Gehrman would often roll himself forward into the Garden most afternoons after the Hunter would retire from his training to sleep. He would take with him a blanket to lay across his lap, and beneath the watchful eye of the moon he would eventually slip into a calm sleep. The Hunter would slash with his cane, jabbing in precise points, then slash once more in wide arcs. The old man would watch him with a hawk's focus, calling out "You're not brandishing a cleaver. You wield a killing edge, not a greatsword!". The Doll found it endearing that the bittered old man would lighten up and mentor her dear Hunter. He even began to treat the Doll without malice.

The Hunter eventually walked down into the lower wards, though backtracking first to tell any survivors of the plague about the church haven. The Dweller there was immeasurably grateful, and would be found speaking in hushed whispers with the old man. They seemed to get along well enough. The lower wards were mostly beast infested, with the infected residents lurking around every corner, with weapons brandished. He made short work of them all the way down to the lowest parts of the ward, where the road to the old city was laid bare for travelers. He found the entrance to the lower city was hardly guarded, signs of some great violence evident by bloodstains and the pummeled and crushed remains of beasts. Not as clean as the church guardians handiwork. This was done with something much larger than a walking stick. The Hunter never found what did it, so he continued lower into the city. The door to the old city was sealed by a notice telling the Hunter to keep out of the old city. He pushed through the doors, but found they were bound with both large chains, and a great iron lock no smaller than his torso. He tried to slash the chains in two, but they were thick and sturdily built. He turned back and went to the old church to ask if anyone knew about the locks to the old city.

"It was long said that the old Hunter Djura of the powder kegs retired in the old city. He locked the doors from the inside to assure that no beasts would escape before he quit his occupation and set himself up as a hermit" spoke Eileen standing outside the haven. She sat at a bench, sharpening her blades with an old stone. She had been recovering since the fight with Heynrik, sitting in the library beneath the church, dressing her wounds and sleeping her injuries away. They sat on the bench and talked about work. Apparently a young girl was searching for her lost sister in the city, Eileen passed a bloodied dress in the sewers. She never found the culprit, but her wounds suggested that a sharpened blade had done her in. The Hunter felt a pang in the back of his head as he considered that this may be the same girl he told to come to the church, but quickly put this thought in the back of his head, for the implication caused him great distress. Eileen handed him some blood vials, telling him to stay safe, before she began a climb onto a nearby balcony.

The Hunter began a search in the upper ward, slowly surveying the alleyways where there were no real threats. The church guardians walked up and down the streets with no real purpose, every so often one would begin to rush down to the lower wards, the Hunter assumed it was to help keep the lower wards in check. He descended a balcony to the main road, for the curious hunter heard the sound of heavy footsteps and chains rattling down the street. He stuck to the shadows as he ascended a large open stairwell leading to the main cathedral, creeping silently towards the sound of jangling chains.

The great gate had originally been off limits to the Hunter, who lacked the badge-key that opened the way. Though when he went to the birdbath by the workshop, the messengers one day offered him a white badge that fit the lock. The massive iron gate opened in recognition of the badge's presence, and the Hunter for the second time, crossed its threshold. A massive courtyard stood before another series of gates in the distance. The implication being that it was a forward area to the main church headquarters. The Hunter left the shadows to investigate where he last heard the sound of chains. There were statues among the large tombstone-like structures in the courtyard, some were laid bare in their towering height, though some were covered in equally massive white cloaks.

He reached forward to the cloth, to see what hid beneath. He grasped the material and gave it a tug. It would not budge, he did however see a large set of spindly legs before some force sent him flying into the iron fence. Before the now dazed and battered hunter stood a colossal man, almost the size of an elephant, and with limbs like tree branches. It stood hunched over, with a white mask indicating it's church affiliation. A small brass bell hung about its thick torso, and a massive axe was in it's hand. The Hunter had nary a second before a deafening bellow was emitted by the creature, and the axe was sent crashing into the pavement. The Hunter stood again, as the creature unlodged its axe from the earth with ease and roared once more, readying for another strike. The Hunter lunged forward and readied his whip, the sword was like a toothpick to this abomination. The axe swung in a vertical arc, missing the Hunter completely as the whip wrapped around the beast's wrist, and then tore away a portion of paper thin flesh. The blood and tissue began to fall from the wound, though the Hunter in his concentration paid it no attention as he again wrapped the whip around the beast's monstrous ankles.

The Giant stepped forward, though the Hunter did not follow, instead braced himself and allowed the creature to do the whip's work for him. The blades tore deep into the tendons of the Giant, and the great creature severed it's own achilles tendon as it tumbled to a knee. The Hunter took initiative and charged forward with his pistol trained and his cane now collapsed into a blade. He ran the blade across the throat of the giant, and as he strode past it, slashed backwards across the hamstring that was unharmed. The Behemoth fell face first, gurgling in its own viscera. The Hunter quickly fled the scene, realising that the cloaked statues began to shift about him, and the servants must have heard the commotion. He leaped forward towards a wall, and climbed to the rooftops to gain a vantage point, bullets from the leading servants ricocheting off the wall next to him.

Safety found, he began to survey the area. The Giants seemed to gather in the courtyard where they could fit them, otherwise one or two of them would patrol the larger roads, while dozens of the smaller church servants would patrol in groups. The main roads were few, and all of them led to the grand cathedral, though the alleyways were mostly filled with an occasional Yharnamite and a few infected animals too confused or afraid to enter the main road. He opted to take the rooftops to the grand cathedral. On his way he would ambush some of the lesser church guards and open up some of the outlying gates to allow him better mobility. Along the way he found a small shop where an assortment of rifles and guns were on display. Not quite hunter tools, but it seemed to have traces of the Powder Keg's influence. He rummaged about for bullets, finding quite a few untouched, but long ago this store was stripped. He took what he needed, and on his way out took a small trinket, a fiction about a great woman duelist. He thought maybe the Doll would appreciate it.

Arriving at the cathedral, the Hunter found two sentries brandishing large poles bearing runes. He threw a pebble at one before diving from a buttress atop its head, his cane piercing the creatures skull and sending it to the floor, death instantaneous. The Hunter was about to begin his assault on the second sentry when he had a deep feeling of nausea crawl up his leg and to his head. The feeling was as if his body was being liquefied, a slow rage began to build as he kicked the sentry's weapon off of his leg, and recklessly charged the beast head on. The guardian swung its pole directly into the shoulder of the hunter, batting him aside, though the great man rolled back into an upright posture before flailing his whip violently, aiming for the eyes and leg. The Beast was blinded for a moment, and then it was dead. The Hunter had no further targets, but now his senses were numbing. Blood began to drip from opening wounds that the Hunter had opened in his fury. He Distanced himself from the corpses inside the church, and quickly injected himself with blood vials aplenty. His focus immediately returning along with the feeling of gravity.

An hour later, he walked the steps of the church wordlessly, trying to get the drop whatever beast commanded the sentries. They could be a church official, or even just a great beast that he had not encountered. Perhaps it was nothing. He would be proven wrong.

The Doll had just walked back into the workshop to begin reading again. She sat for a moment and looked down her sleeves to make sure there was no skin. Porcelain as usual. She sighed and picked up a book before thinking about the weight in her chest. She paused for a moment and focused her mind on her Hunter. Perhaps the blood would permit her to see where he was, his power was after all connected to her consciousness. _He was in trouble._

She lifted her hands to wipe the sweat from her brow. _Wait…._

 **Well this took a while, but I actually enjoyed writing this chapter. Uni has been interesting, though kind of boring. I finished this mostly in a laundry room between my classes. I managed to put another lit reference if anyone cares to find it and leave it in the reviews. Anyway I'll probably comb over it and flush out any grammar mistakes or bits I don't like. You guys leave reviews as always, I love getting feedback. Until next time.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Who would think that this coming chapter could take so long? I'm writing this in a car on the way back to university, I decided to visit home for a change and maybe get some work done. Currently I'm working to be a recovering slacker. Probably will fail, though that means I fail my courses, so that's off the table. Anyway, here's the story.**

The now emboldened Hunter ascended the great stairs to the grand Cathedral, carefully scanning the outcroppings for any danger. There was none, though the dried blood covering the statues of the old ones suggested a struggle long gone. He swiped a thumb over one of the stone idols, and found that whatever had spilled the blood had long since left the viscera to dry. Perhaps the church servants had taken the corpses away. He continued walking the steps. Soon enough, he heard the murmurs of a singular voice in the darkness, and drew a torch from his coat. He took the covering off the head, and lit the resin, allowing the flame to illuminate the entrance arch of the room. It was a vast temple hall, ornate stone carvings adorning the walls, and long since rusted candle holders sitting haphazardly as far as the torch would illuminate. The windows were covered by massive tapestries, which he attempted to move. A massive cloud of dust obscured his vision and coated his cloak. He left the wall hangings instead, and lit any candles left in the holders.

It was then that he heard the murmur become a sentence. Then a sob. Then another murmur. He began to move towards the noise, and saw the slouched silhouette of what appeared to be a nun. The Hunter drew his blade, and walked towards the woman. He moved his torch forward to see her form, but instead he looked upon a small woman, on her knees in veneration to the church alter, with a dusty white-grey robe. Whenever she had come to the church, she had not left in days.

Then she noticed the light. For a second she paused her mutterings, and looked behind her shoulder. A single jaundiced eye, glassed over with tears met his gaze, then she began to gag. Her arms opened wide, and a golden locket hung in hand. She began to twitch and he drew his pistol, throwing the torch aside. The woman, who was now beginning to violently convulse in her place, he identified as the old vicar Amelia, who's work was known all over the city. Her arm dislocated, and he fired a shot. It landed squarely in her shoulder, where her heart should be. The vicar's body slumped over and collapsed in a heap. It continued to convulse however, her skin crawling under the surface, and her arms and legs breaking into distorted shapes. Then she exploded. A massive eruption of stinking blood coated the walls of the church in ichor, and the Hunter leaped into the shadows.

The cloud dissipated, and in the darkness of the great Cathedral the Hunter hid while something massive lumbered around the room. He would peak from his spot, but only see brief glimpses of fur and claw and horn in the candle light before it pushed the debris out of the way. The Hunter peered into the darkness once more, and threw a stone to the far corner of the building. The beast stopped entirely for a moment, let loose a piercing shriek, then sent hundreds of candle holders flying as it swiped at the wall, tearing the curtains from the window as it attacked.

He saw it then in full. The former vicar was slouched over in a dog like mound of white fur matted with stains of blood. Her canines protruded from the dog like snout, and a pair of antlers sat atop her head like a macabre crown. The moonlight now illuminated the room, and the beast now could see the Hunter in clear sight. It screamed once more, and leaped into the air.

Gehrman sat in his garden, rhythmically moving inches forward and back in his old chair. He thought about the Hunter's progress. "The lad's a prodigy" he said to no one in particular, thinking of how fluidly the boy moved. He had a moment of pride before he sighed and slowly reached for his cane. He thought for a moment of Laurence, and then looked to the tombstones that were erected before the great tree. This was his life as the sole sentinel of the Hunter's Dream, the linchpin of Hunter society. He listened intently as the voices radiated down from the moon in hushed low tones, making promises and telling stories he only half understood. The old man listened, though thought of Laurence, and how he ended up here with that automaton. He knew something in the world shifted when the Doll began to speak.

He remembered how the beasts tore apart the city, mile by mile they overran the hunters. He remembered the old city being sealed away and set on fire, the church locking its facilities and forsaking the people, and he remembered first how the last of the Yharnamite hunters were torn apart by the beasts and each other. Though little by little the workshop changed around him. One day the Doll simply began to speak to him, almost as if it had been all his life. The Doll walked to him with a cup of tea, he thanked it and she walked away. He thought to himself of the moon, and the Hunter, and the workshop. A whisper reverberated about the dream " _He'll kill you"._

The Doll knelt before the tombstone of an unnamed hunter. She prayed softly for the safety of the Hunter, and for his salvation. She thought of the heat that rose in her chest when he would return, and channeled that warmth into venerable prayer. Perhaps the old gods would aid him. She stood, and went about her chores. She organized the papers in the workshop, swept the dirt and dust from the floor, and washed the pots and pans over the hearth. She went to the desk where the Hunter would tinker with his tools, and began reorganizing the papers that he laid strewn about the surface. She glanced twice at a small leather notebook and pencil that she had never seen before. She opened it to see the content, and was taken aback by a small pencil sketch of a beautiful woman. There were elegant lines and curves under a red and white gown, and from what she could tell, a pale face. The Doll flipped through the content and found diagrams of weapon mechanisms, traps, sketches, and notes all in the Hunter's familiar script. She turned to a note and noted the heading "My Doll".

 _My Dearest Doll,_

 _A word of thanks for all that you do around the shop, and another word for your continued support and devotion to my Hunt. I hope that perhaps one day I may lay down my arms and stay in the workshop with you and be rid of this Hunt business. It bears on my mind always, and regardless of the blood or the steel or the violence, I know I can return home to a warm hearth and a kind face. I'll try and keep bringing gifts back for you._

He never finished the note, though rather there was another drawing of her sitting alone on the stone wall, clutching a small bell. He captured a small light reflecting from her porcelain features. The unfamiliar heat rose once more, and when she put the book down, she saw her reflection in a bit of metal. She feinted.

The Hunter watched as the massive frenzied beast took to the air with a shriek. Its claws bore down on him with speeds he hadn't seen since his battle on the bridge. With nowhere to roll in time, the Hunter drew his pistol and fired a single round towards the great beast. The shot (aimed at the left eye) hit the Vicar in one of her horns, the result being a pained tone to fill the air, and the creature reaching for the missing bone. She landed violently on the floor, and rolled right into the Hunter, who narrowly escaped being crushed by holding on to the hair of the Vicar's top side. The beast began to rise once more, and the Hunter quickly smashed a small jar over her back before leaping off to the side. The Vicar swiped with her free hand, and the Hunter rolled backwards, throwing another jar into the beast's torso. The Vicar was not deterred however. She stumbled forward, rushing the Hunter with claws and teeth.

The Hunter began to strafe arcs around his target, all the while waiting for an opening. It came when the Vicar charged once more, missing him by a small gap, and crashing into a wall. The Hunter seized the opportunity and loosed his whip, flaying the back legs of the Vicar, who in turn began to kick wildly in agony. The Hunter drew back for a moment to ready another strike, when one of the claws about her foot narrowly missed the Hunter, instead catching him in the shoulder and cutting deeply into his pistol hand. He grimaced, collapsed his cane, and slashed a deep arc into the leg while it was returning. He then began to back off, slowly walking back to the center of the church, his hand reaching behind him for a blood vial. He thought carefully of his training, and of his knowledge of large beasts. _Injure claw. Disable leg. Exploit fear._

He ran forward with his whip readied to strike. The Vicar swept wide with her claw, the appendage sailing harmlessly under the Hunter, who threw another projectile at the Vicar's feet this time while lashing sideways with his whip. He stood and braced himself, his whip wrapped tightly into the arm of the beast. She recoiled and screamed desperately as the Hunter pulled the whip free, tearing deeply into her arm in the process. The blood from the wound flowed freely as she clutched at the afflicted appendage. She began to prop herself up on her hind legs, and assumed a stance of prayer. A feint glow began to emanate from her clutched hand, and the blood around her arm stopped flowing freely. The Hunter noticed this, and rushed forward to seize the pause in assault. He needed to end the fight now. His wound was too deep to heal with a quick blood vial. He ran around the Vicar's back, and slashed out both of her heels. It did not bother the praying form, the blood already coagulating. Then he threw one more urn, before using the whip to grab the wrist holding the locket. He pulled, and the blades freed the arm to her side. He drew his pistol and fired into her palm, the locket fell, and the healing stopped. Her wounds now bled freely.

The Vicar began to turn, but her legs would not follow, the tendons were flayed from their places. The great form stumbled a foot, then collapsed. The Hunter then struck the floor where he had thrown his last trap. The oil lit immediately, and the fire then caught in the oil soaked beast. Vicar Amelia twitched for a moment, then submitted to the immolation with a slouch of resignation, her hair and flesh creating a heap of burning viscera. The Hunter looked upon his terrible work, then looked to the altar. Amelia was praying for a long period to something, he was curious to see what inspired such veneration. He thought for a moment of fleeing the church, a great and terrible fear enveloped his bones, and faint whispers began to assail him. He longed to flee to the Dream, flee and sit in the company of the Doll and never return to the horrible abandoned cathedral. There upon the altar of the Grand Cathedral was a beastly skull about the size of a small dog. It's cracked cranium was glowing, and the Hunter, overcome with the voices assaulting his mind, absently reached for the altar.

The Doll was sitting underneath the shade of a massive tree. There was the smell of morning dew, and the warm scent of fire in the air, and the cool wind softly played at the leaves that hung what seemed like miles above their heads. _Their._ The Hunter rested his head in her lap, the weight softly easing on and off her covered thighs. She felt the burn in her cheeks as he looked up softly and removed his spectacles. She looked away and saw three pillars of stone in the garden, they were made from some black stone, and looking at them unsettled her, so she looked back down. He was closer this time, his head rising, and the skin of her palm molding to the pressure of another hand. She felt lips and hands and heat. She could not comprehend the situation, and in a moment of extended bliss she opened her eyes to see his face. He was no longer in front of her, but on the other side of the garden, staring up at a massive lunar face.

 **This took longer than I thought It would, though hey, I got it done. My writing has been sporadic as of late. Uni is kicking my ass, and I really need to get a feeling for good study habits, lest I fail before I reached my potential. Though I find solace from despair and life and chemistry in the writing that I do on this site. It's easy and fun. That and I love to hear you guy's criticism or reviews. It assures me that I'm not wasting my time with my writing. Until next chapter.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ready for another chapter? I really am! Mostly me because I've been studying for my finals and really want to die. Hell week is almost over, and with that I get to reveal a surprise to you guys.**

The Hunter walked briskly to the erected lantern and barely managed to light a match for the messengers. The light glow of the new lamp post attracted messengers, and they took his slumped form back to the dream.

Eileen walked the roofs of Yarnham with ease, searching among what remained of the slaughtered corpses of the beasts in the street. She climbed down a small chop ladder to inspect some of the corpses better. The eviscerated beasts were lying in heaps of parts, their extremities cut cleanly from them rather than the battered and ragged lacerations from the Hunter she knew in the streets. Many of the bodies lying in the road were killed with one or two blows, with something extraordinarily sharp. She looked to the sky to see the twilight setting upon Yarnham, silently thinking to herself of the Hunters she knew who possessed such power.

She thought briefly of the earliest days of her job, how the other hunters about each workshop would stare at the grim young woman, who would return to them coated in the blood of their comrades. She would wash her hands in the basin, and keep her eyes fixed on the ground as the disapproving gazes of the other Hunters would bore holes into her body. She used to be one of them, before her late master handed the crowfeather mantle to her, the new Hunter of Hunters. She accepted the job as tribute to her master, and took to the streets, coldly hunting friends turned foe, and washing the blood off her hands in the presence of the deceased friends. The job had no glory, no honor, no Hunter spirit. Eileen the Crow was the feared shadow for the Hunters who savored the kill, the antithesis of the thrill of the hunt.

Often she would return from her job, covered in the blood of the maddened students of the workshop. Often she would experience the hateful gaze of Djura, who would tinker in the powder keg shop, or she would have to pass Henryk and Gascoigne, the latter often speaking gruff utterances. "The Hunt is tireless lass, if you finish early, you may come and dine at my table, the children rarely see guests these days", she quite missed Gascoigne, pity he had to go. She then thought of how the workshop began to cloud in fog, and she would see the prodigies of Gehrman leaving for the Hunt, that top hatted Lawrence with his wild eyes, and that white haired woman of cainhurst with the soft eyes. She was always uneasy when they were around. Eventually she too began dreaming, and those hunters that did not seemed to disappear into the masses of beasts and the rivers of blood and seemingly the fog itself. She eventually stopped seeing them altogether when she spoke to that Doll in the shop.

Then she stopped dreaming, and was left with nothing, no basin to wash her hands, or hunters to disapprove of her, not even a trace that the hunter's ever existed as an organization. She was alone, and in a way, she missed the disapproving looks of the others. She said aloud "I wonder if Djura is still alive in the old city?". Then she stood, took a blood sample from the viscera, and walked briskly towards the lower wards.

He sat on an old chair on the top of a tower in a city that had long been burned to the ground. His eye was trained on the plaza where the seal he set long ago was posted. The now rusted iron chains sat in their usual position, and he smiled to himself on his handiwork with the lock. He built it himself after all. The older man stood to gain a better view, and saw the creatures wander the streets aimlessly and without threat. Every so often one would bump into another and a scuffle would erupt, though it would never last long before a dominant would come forth and break up the violence. He was fine with the job, or rather, his retirement. He would watch from his tower as the world and the hunt would fade in and out, firing his great turret at whatever blood soaked murderer would try to slaughter the innocents below. He worried little though, one had not turned up in over four years. He sipped from a cup he kept nearby, and toiled with a gear in his signature weapon. He never grew feeble though, Djura was the last Powder Keg, and if he didn't have kick, he just wouldn't be worth the title.

All the while Gehrman sat in the garden with his eyes closed. There were no other presences, though in the dream he felt the eldritch energies swarm around him like a hive of bees. There were voices and feelings and sensations that he couldn't describe, sounds and voices of people who no longer were alive. He called out into the void when he heard that light Cainhurst accent "Maria?" and then began to think. He called out in frightened whispers"Oh, Laurence... Master Willem... Somebody help me... Unshackle me please, anybody... I've had enough of this dream... The night blocks all sight... Oh, somebody, please.." but began to sob on the last syllable. To him the dream has always been with him. The workshop was his home, though every time he gazed at the silver hair of that doppelganger, it threw him into a low rage. He missed the proteges, and remembered when he first laid eyes on the doll, he slapped the hair ornament that Maria used to wear.

He opened his eyes, and saw Maria's corpse, a great beast sleeping on an altar, and the Hunter return through the fog. He opened his eyes in full and looked up, the moon was staring back at him.

The Hunter stumbled back from the Cathedral and into the garden of the workshop, tripping and falling into the damp grass on his way to the path to Gehrman. He looked around, and saw that when he tried to move, he was still wounded from his battle, the blood he shed making the flowers about the garden bloom. He sat upright and used his last vial he would keep around his neck to heal himself, before falling back into the grass and out of consciousness, the voices in his head shouting and clouding his focus. He felt the cold hand of a messenger grasp his palm, and there was something smooth and wet in his palm, he cared not for it though. The whispers around him became worse and worse in the shop, and for a moment he raised his pistol to his temple and thought through clouded thoughts if it would make the voices stop. The dread he felt intensified with the pounding ache in his skull, and he silently cried out to any of the voices to stop their assault, he commanded them to be silent, he writhed with the feeling and wrestled with the overwhelming void that was threatening to burst from his eyes. Then he passed out, beneath the concerned and frightened gaze of the Doll.

She sensed the Hunter enter the dream, but something was different in his awakening. She felt his panic and watched as some of the lumenflowers began to bloom, which signaled that someone was injured. She walked briskly from Gehrman's side and rushed to the usual point that he would come from. He was writing on the floor with one hand on his forehead and one on a pistol. He threw the gun from his reach and held tightly to what she saw was a grotesque bloodshot eyeball before murmuring in strange tones, then passing out. She knew not what to do, though she felt that he shouldn't be sitting outside in such a state.

She went to the back of the shop and called out in a voice that was not hers to the awake host Gehrman "Master Hunter, your new student lays dying in the lumenflowers, _help me"._ He seemed to further rise from his daze, eyes growing full and aware as he commanded "Take me to the boy". He wheeled himself from his post by the moon and stopped near the flowers in the garden. "Take from him his weapons and coat, I will bring him to the shop" and she did. Though when the Doll turned to take the weapons back to the shop, she stopped and stared as she witnessed a new spectacle.

The old master Hunter seemed as though he was much greater than a moment before, and he stood from his chair without assistance from his cane. He rose to a mountainous height, a thin frame with definition all about his arms and legs, his cap casting a shadow upon his wrinkled face, but his eyes glowing with an old strength. He walked into the flowers and with a single hand lifted the large man from his place, and slung him over his shoulder before walking back to the shop. On his way though he began to hear the voices once more, though this time emanating from the boy. He dropped to a knee and the Hunter fell from the great man's back and onto the floor. He cursed under his breath, and took the Hunter into the shop, placing him in a large chair by the hearth. He did this, then felt the strength leave his bones as he braced himself against the wall and called the Doll to bring him a chair. He looked in a mirror and remembered the days when he too participated in the hunt. He smirked, and then wheeled himself back into the yard, calling out "Maria, please tend to our injured guest, perhaps get the biscuits Laurence has hidden behind the desk". The Doll did not respond, and assumed the old man had already fallen asleep and was murmuring.

Knowing little medicine, and having no true experience with the wounded, the Doll instead sat near the Hunter and read, periodically stopping to clumsily, though tightly, wrap and change bandages on the Hunter. She would periodically glance at him, making sure he still drew breath. She knew he would survive, her life was tied to his, but it calmed her to see his shallow breath. Soon he began convulsing in his seat, and she felt the old whispers in his head, so she took hold of his arm and thought aloud, the emotions she knew he would not remember or feel. "Hunters have told me about the church. About the gods, and their love. But... do the gods love their creations? I am a doll, created by you humans. Would you ever think to love me? Of course... I do love you. Isn't that how you've made me?". She ended on a whisper, an unfamiliar pain rising in her chest as she thought of all the places she read of, the places she would never visit, and she thought of the woman in her dreams, the one that stared back when she looked in a mirror.

The Doll held him until he stopped and resumed calm breathing. She then stood and felt his consciousness returning as she put water on for tea. She looked quickly at his form, bandages holding firm, and tattered clothing from his hunt. Usually when he returned, the messengers would restore him in his reawakening, though she suspected that perhaps the forces that overcame his mind scared them off. She let him rise slowly, and offered him tea when he managed to stand upright for a minute. He wordlessly nodded and she passed him a brew. He drank slowly before walking over to his chair and thinking to himself. She looked at him and concentrated on his essence, feeling in the massive quantities of echoes in him for his spirit. She saw it then, the inhuman knowledge flowing freely in him, and the strange and frightening sounds that surrounded his mind. He existed burdened not only by the weight of the Hunt, but the wisdom that came with succeeding in its slaughter.

He stood, and put his weapons back on the workshop bench, then drained his mug of the remaining tea he had. The Hunter slumped down on the chair and breathed deeply, he desperately wished for a drink about now, his head was pounding, it felt as though someone has shoved a billiard into his forehead. He instead felt the smooth porcelain of his only companion's hand on his shoulder, he reached and took it in his own, savoring the feeling of pristine skin on his rough hands before looking back to see the smooth ceramic woman he was used to. He thought it strange, but instead opened a powder keg tome and decided to try and focus on some work more productive. He was about to ask the Doll if she would like to sit with him and keep his company, but when he turned there was no one, and he sighed before turning back to his thankless work.

He tried to focus on the diagrams of the complex trick weapons, the pistons and screws that latched in place and the gears that worked almost as clockwork. He tried and tried to glean some usable knowledge, but he could not focus. Images of the old Byrgenwerth master, and his treacherous student, and the ever bloody hunt that dragged the once thriving city into ruin clouded his vision, and even when he dozed off, nightmares haunted him.

He stood in a massive hall among hundreds of other men. Legions of other human beings brandishing old rifles, blades, sabres, trick weapons, and some using crude traps. He stood in a line of ranks, seeing Gascoigne, Henryk, men in white and black church garb. He was then in the streets, running as hordes of enraged beasts charged the streets in a rage, indiscriminately eviscerating and tearing other less swift hunters apart. He watched as he walked back into the hall, where only a few dozen remained, and only a few came back with no injury. All were covered in blood. He looked to the forefront of the hall, then up, where he saw more hunters hanging in the upper levels. He stood in a massive tower, the stories ascending high above him, and hunters all working tirelessly. He saw an old man in a wheelchair flanked by two silhouettes.

He was then alone in the tower with about a dozen other compatriots. One of them began screaming like a madman and fired a bullet into the man next to him, then rushing one of the riflemen with his sword. Before he could thrust his sword forward, a knife embedded itself into the hand of the frenzied man, and then a large axe severed the head of the poor fool, his clouded pupils falling out of focus. Then all hell broke loose as the Hunter looked around as a great many of his comrades simply faded into clouds of dust. He heard a scream as a pair of bodies fell from on high and landed in a messy heap on the floor, one of them gurgling in his own viscera as if praying. He then looked to the exit, and a large horned wolf stared him in the face as it lifted an impaled church hunter in its hand. The Hunter ran to the beast, but something was weighing down his arm. He looked, and found the dead hunter hanging from a blood soaked claw. He was standing in front of a mirror. Then darkness, and he saw the eyes. Hundreds of eyes staring at the inside of his head. He was inside himself and the eyes tore him from the plague and into a rapturous frenzy as he screamed out for anyone.

Then he awoke. Coated in sweat and grease from the workshop, tears staining the pages of the book he was reading. He turned around, and saw the old man staring at him. Gehrman wheeled to him and handed him a rag, all the while patting his shoulder and saying "don't worry lad, none of it will remain once you leave the dream. Just pay it no mind and keep hunting, the pains and the nightmare will pass. A nightmare, that's all it is." He sighed, but the headache was gone, and he would not allow this weight to slow him down. He returned to work revitalized by the knowledge that he now knew where he would need to go. He knew where Byrgenworth was, and he knew he needed to find the old scholar of Kos.

 **I intended for this chapter to be much longer. Though I think that I'll make a mega-chapter when I have time after finals. Given that my last final for the semester is in a few days. I really miss doing these more frequently, though I hope the winter holiday lets me get some real work done. I may do a completely irrelevant chapter just to give some fanfare or fanwank. Either way, I'll see if I can do something you guys will like. I always love your reviews, so keep them coming. Anyway just in case, happy holidays, happy new year, and I should see you all beforehand.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Well the year is coming to a close, and I've had myself a lovely little vacation from life. That aside I promised you, dear reader, a holiday special. A bit late though.**

The Hunter, cursed for the past week with fleeting attacks of anxiety and panic, sat testily in a chair with a book of church prayers. He would stand in the parlor of the workshop without so much as a thought in his head, clutching his head as the eyes of insight peered into him and whispered terrible visions into his head. He saw spiders crawling around in the void, and heard inhuman whispers drown out everything in his head. He would often stagger to a bench or a soft bit of earth to lay down and rest the thoughts away.

In his dreams the Hunter would float among the white void. He was floating on his back, and opening his eyes would cause no discomfort as the eyes peering at him softly watched him float on. The whispers were clear in this place, and he felt light as conversations he did not understand rang out around him like an incomprehensible orchestra. Every so often he would see a passing tentacle or the obscure shadow of some form pass his sight. Such shadows would stop for a moment and stare at him before passing, a small whisper or a low noise telling him it had something to say.

When he would awake, the Hunter would feel limber. Unstoppable. He went into the dream and went into the fray, slashing away at beasts and seeking new answers to find the old Byrgenwerth school. Though his searches were concluded when his burst of energy would taper off, his limber body would go rigid, and he would stagger back to the dream to recover.

On his way he was signalled to a nearby bell tower, and a rope ladder fell. When he got to the top, hands haphazardly reaching for new supports, Eileen reached and dragged him into a nearby bed. She looked at his body for injury, a vial of blood in her hand waiting to cure what ails her comrade. _No bruises or cuts, no signs of plague, pulse racing, eyes dilated, he's going mad._ She looked at his face, drenched with sweat and panic, and drew her knife. She had been watching him from her towers. The Hunter would fly into hordes of beasts and slash them to ribbons, he was more aggressive than what she normally saw, and when he would stop the killing and the crowds of infected citizens were strewn out in bloody heaps, he would slink off into the shadows until she saw him next. If he was going man, he would not be easy to stop. She thought of Henryk and of the other Hunters she had to put down and cringed. He was a friend, she was going to kill a friend.

The Hunter let out a moan as he felt the eyes press into him once more, only the pain was more intense. He felt the waves of nausea build up in his chest, and then he heard the whispers clearly. _Let me in Hunter, I have waited long, and you will listen. Let me in._

Eileen looked at him once more, closing in slowly on his prone form. His eyes were open and bloodshot with exhaustion. He was covered in blood save for his face, which was reddening with what she expected was fever. Eileen made eye contact with him briefly, he calmed for a moment and she whispered " _Forgive me_ " before moving her blade to his neck.

And he disappeared.

The Messengers grasped wildly at his cloak and shirt, ripping apart his garb in transit in the aether, and when he was bare, they left him in a great lake of white. He floated there for what seemed to him an eternity, before the familiar shadows and whispers came before him at random.

Then silence.

Gehrman sat in silence in the small workshop tucked into his tea, although today was new to him. He noticed that the entirety of the workshop seemed as if it was coated in a cheery morning dew. His cup seemed uncharacteristically polished, and his joints felt fine. The flowers about the shop even seemed to stand an inch taller, and that pale imitation walked with more life than it deserved. He thought it queer, but there were no voices, and he savored the tranquility. He wondered aloud if Maria would return from her hunt soon, she so enjoyed tending to the lumenflowers after a hunt. Last she left two days ago he remembered she had taken seeds to sow in the church hall, she spoke fondly of the patients therein. She would be back soon, she forgot her whetstone.

Gehrman then decided that it would do him good to stand and stretch his old bones, he was tired of sitting and waiting for the moon to speak once more. And he stood from his chair. Slowly rising to his full height, looking down then on the Doll, who took his cup obediently as he reached for his blade on the wall. It had been a while since he had fiddled with the old thing. So he walked outside the workshop and used an old key fastened to his cap's brim to unlock the inner garden. He thought of how Lawrence would love the new addition of the garden, though since he became a Vicar he had been terribly busy. Gehrman drew the whetstone from his pocket and dragged it over the length of his curved armament twelve times each side, then touched his nail to the blade, making sure to sharpen the old tool just so it maintained a sturdy killing edge. When he finished sharpening it, he held it close to his waist and with a fluid motion thrust the handle into the catch, his joints popping accompanying the sinister reaper.

Usually Laurence would sharpen or temper the blade while Gehrman would stretch, but now Gehrman had to entertain himself until either he or Maria returned, they were terribly concerned for his state, though he insisted that he was spry in old age. "Age before beauty" he thought before swinging the great scythe in wide arcs, twirling the massive staff in his hands as if it was a pencil, and then arcing the crooked blade right through a wooden pillar.

The Doll went about her duties with a brisk air of concern. All the time she thought of the vanishing Hunter and his persistent illness. It reminded her of the convulsions Gehrman sat through decades prior. Before she could even move or speak she remembered the fog and the messengers watching his trembling form mutter and foam at the sky; this frightened her to no end, but she worked nonetheless tirelessly. She stopped for a moment however when she heard an iron gate screech open, and noticed that Gehrman's armament was not in its place on the wall.

Not a moment she hesitated to move towards that gate which filled her with fear. Not once in her memory had she recalled that gate ever been touched, and not once had she seen Gehrman brandish his feared sickle. However there he was, standing almost impossibly tall and impossibly _not frail_ , swinging that massive blade impossibly forcefully and moving impossibly fast. He rolled and swiped his blade through a wooden pillar as thick as a tree with ease, not for a moment hesitating to draw an unseen firearm and destroying the airborne column in a powerful hail of buckshot. He then lunged forward and with a thrust of his trunk-like legs he split another column in half before condensing his blade into its smaller form and slashing away at some unseen adversary. He moved, a man possessed, it seemed to her that he was not _could not_ be human. Gehrman was too fast, too strong, too frail in his seat to suddenly become so terrifying.

She walked away, thinking all the time how the Hunter could compare to such an avatar. When she first started listening to the inhabitants of the workshop, Lawrence once called him "The Saint of the Hunt", someone agreed, but she could not remember who. Regardless, she thought that she saw a volume on ailments common among hunters, and became filled with determination to find a cure for her Hunter.

 _I am that which you can not know, and you will awake anew. Knowledge of your mission, and knowledge of a new path. Go Hunter, accept my voice, and walk as I do._

He stood then in a queer circular pavilion. Rather, another man stood there, staring at him, being prone on the floor. Without any real thought the Hunter leapt to his feet with ease, noticing a total lack of pain as he did so. Alfred looked to him skeptically, shaking his head and chortling "You're quite spry for one who was found in a gutter". The Hunter looked to him, thanked him for bringing his unconscious form to a safe place, and without wishing to appear rude gave his friend a few blood vials before walking down a stairway to a great door of sorts.

Gehrman finished his training, and walked back to the workshop whistling some long forgotten tune. He wondered what his students would fascinate him with when they returned, all while locking the gate he entered for precaution. As he turned the key though, something shifted within his head and the gate's polished iron turned to rust. He didn't mind, and walked once more to his destination things seemed to take on a darker hue, and the very earth seemed to harden underneath his feet. He figured that perhaps he was tired from his exercise, and that his age was getting to him. Either way, Lawrence and Maria were going to be back in the shop, the Doll will be sitting on the table in the corner, and everything will ease up after some tea. He managed to sit down in his chair before a terrible panic hit him and his body went into a sleep like paralysis.

Meanwhile Eileen was setting traps all around the old city, not for the rabid beasts in the streets, but for that Hunter lurking in the shadows. After he had disappeared, Eileen was certain that he had become blood drunk from the prolonged hunt. To her though it was a job, just another blood crazed fool who's good intent mixed business and pleasure. While wiring a pitfall in an old rooftop she stopped for a moment to look at the surroundings. She had noticed that the usually barren rooftops were more bloodied than usual, and it lacked the diseased stench of beasts.

She stood then, and lit a small hand lantern to see the extent of the carnage, perhaps something had done her job for her. She looked in the alcoves and in the small jutting towers for signs of struggle or corpses. She found it strange that the bells that were usually in the towers to ward off vermin in times of the hunt were gone, and more often or not something or someone had been tampering with the symbols kept in the architecture meant to ward away the foul blood. She then came upon a belltower in the city atop a block of homes, and in the tower, she for the first time felt an alien sickness warm in her stomach.

A hunter was strung by her heels in the bell, her head dangling by a rope, and a clean single cut allowed her blood to pour from the wound into a bucket. Eileen felt a chill rise up her arms, and kicked the bucket's contents to the floor to confirm a creeping hypothesis. The blood in the bucket seemed to move slightly as it splattered to the floor, small clumps of coagulation churning on their own. She said aloud the word "Cainhurst" before a pair of bullets hit the bell, dropping the macabre bell onto Eileen. She removed the corpse, jumping to her feet and taking cover from the assailant, but she saw only a silhouette in the distance brandishing a fine blade.

He drifted for a long while with a pounding head in the vast white abyss, clad only in his undergarments as a soft but ominous voice rang out to him. He attempted to move, and found that he could, and so he stood. He battled for a moment then with the voice, mentally pushing outward until he then heard a pure sound. Like the washing of undulating waves, and he thought of the sea, accepting the scenery as he heard it.

Then he was standing in his garb in the white expanse, and sitting ten paces in front of him was a man dressed much like himself, atop a pale white stone.

 **Well it's the next year and I've kept you waiting long enough. I can't say that it'll be any more frequent or infrequent, as my schedule has been just as manic as I have. Though I'll still try and get more chapters out. I have not abandoned my projects yet so don't worry. I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday as I have had. That said I may come back and edit this one, writer's block sucks. Anyway, criticism is always encouraged.**

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	11. Story Update

Story Update-

Hello my dear readers, been a while hasn't it? This is just an update to say that my stories aren't dead, but on hiatus. I took some time after my first year of uni ended to sort out a little business and focus on some of my other hobbies, and it's been a lot of fun. With any hope though, I'll pump out more chapters for both of my fictions by the end of my summer holiday. Also the next chapters will be devoted to a friend of mine. I hope you've all been enjoying my work so far, and I'll try to make it better as I go. Maybe after a couple of replays/rewatches I'll have an even better flow.

-J

Unrelated note: I'm thinking of doing a romance story for Durarara! Between Anri and Mikado, should I take the time or no?


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